


Corruption Bound: The Path Trodden Black

by Ophelias



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Mind Control, Oral Sex, Rape, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-29
Packaged: 2017-12-14 12:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 44,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/836749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ophelias/pseuds/Ophelias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Chantry has fallen, and Anders is on the run. Templars want to capture and punish him. Sebastian would prefer to try and execute him. Kirkwall’s mages hope to rescue him. Fenris follows to offer him a clean death. Justice plots to use Anders as bait to lure a superior host. What’s the worst that could happen?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Delirious

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the warnings before proceeding at your own caution. If the darkness of this story is too much, I recommend the other stories in my Corruption Bound series. Things do get better, however slowly, for our main characters. This is the story where things get worse. New chapters will be posted every day or every other day as time permits.

Delirious overstimulation. Anders ran the words through his mind, ending up speaking them aloud. It was the best description for what he was feeling. He said it again, like a mantra, to keep him grounded. If he was saying it, he was thinking it. He hadn’t fallen to the temptation to stop thinking and just feel.

What he felt now reminded him of his various escapes from the Circle. He was noticing many of the same things. The sun on his skin. The smell of green plants wafting by on a passing breeze. The rustle of leaves, and the sound of small animals skittering by. The crunching of twigs and weeds under his boots. The strain of his calves as he hiked uphill. The taste of his cheeks and lower lip as he bit back a smile that threatened to overcome him. The colors, sights, and sounds. The smells. The physical sensations.

Every moment was stolen time. Kirkwall stood ablaze behind him. That he lived at all was a miracle. That he could smell the smoke and hear the battle cries and enjoy it was a miracle he didn’t deserve at all.

Was this why he felt something else, something more than in previous escapes? The rounded trees sporting green and yellow leaves and scattered with white and pink flowers were like a child’s illustration, colors jarringly bright in sun that momentarily blinded when left unfiltered by the leaves overhead. He didn’t just smell fresh air; he tasted it and could tell you the composition of plants and rocks a mile upwind. A gentle breeze was such a distracting tease across his skin that he pulled his coat close to cover his neck, wishing for a pair of gloves to stop his hands from shaking on a warm day. The chirping of birds exchanging flirtations was so sweet that he brushed a tear from the corner of his eye.

It was so much. Too much. He had been unsure before he left Kirkwall whether Justice was gone or present but dormant. It would not be the first time the spirit was spurred into a satisfied silence, taken aback in shock, or simply smited temporarily out of Anders’ conscious reach. But no. This could only be his body reacting to the absence of his longtime companion. As the years passed in Kirkwall, he had felt his senses compacting as the two beings merged into one. The once selfish desires of his former self were muted in steps too gradual to mourn, subsumed into more mature goals that he and Justice shared. He sacrificed much to pen his manifesto, uphold the mage underground, and plan the ultimate volley to begin a mage rebellion. He had not known exactly how much until it all came rushing back.

Had he once felt this strongly every minute of every hour of every day? No wonder he had been such a hedonist as a younger man. Delirious overstimulation. It could lull the strongest man into complacency. Ironically, it left Anders aching to share his experiences with someone. After years embarked on internal conversations with a being who became part of his shared consciousness, he was suddenly, shatteringly, heart-breakingly alone. No Justice. Also no Hawke, who spared him but also set him free, alone. Nor would any of Hawke’s companions, sympathetic or otherwise, wish to be seen with him, he was sure.

He was alone. Alone in a state of delirious overstimulation. Worse than alone. Without the spirit to anchor his decisions, this thing still called Anders was a raw personality with its ego stripped away. He did not want or need. He could barely think. But oh, he felt. Maybe if he kept repeating the reason for his drug-like state of exhilaration, he could survive long enough to rebuild his mental acuity. He must resist the temptation to lie in a lush carpet of grass and watch the clouds go by. Foolish temptation.

Ecstatic intoxication. There. Another line for the mantra. Good. He would not smell the roses just visible on the horizon. The roses were deadly, and not because of poisoned thorns. Smelling meant stopping.

Anders stumbled forward, resisting the pull of his overwhelmed senses. No doubt there would be Templars coming for him. Even if Meredith ordered them to do otherwise, there would be those who sought revenge for the murder of so many innocents. Not long ago, Anders in his merged state with Justice had approved and offered himself as a political sacrifice and martyr to the cause. Now, the wind whistling through the rocks as he trekked north wailed with him, anguishing that he wanted to live.

Anders would do anything to survive, to experience all this for even one more moment, to have even the weakest whisper of a chance that someday he could struggle for the words to share this feeling with someone who cared enough to listen. Delirious overstimulation. Ecstatic intoxication. Bringing trials and tribulations. Before Justice, he would not have had the willpower to resist the desire to stop and feel.

How ironic. What he wouldn’t give to share how ironic that was with someone who cared about him.

Maker help him. He had never been so alive. Or so alone. Or so dangerous.


	2. Confrontation

It was only a couple of hours before a group of three Templars caught up with Anders. The renegade team spotted Anders’ distinctive silhouette in the distance and followed its journey at a safe distance. They halted several times to mute their clanking progress in response to Anders stopping briefly before starting madly off again. Each time, Anders was too busy talking to himself to hear them. Finally, they saw an opportunity to cut through a clearing. They waited in ambush among hawthorn bushes along the dark path. When Anders grew near, still unaware of their presence, all but the eldest ran loudly at him.

Anders made a horizontal motion with his hands as two attackers approached from ahead. It was a perfect call, under the circumstances. A stunning blast of telekinetic waves centered on his body stretched around in all directions. The Templars ahead staggered backwards, momentarily stunned. The leaves of the bushes rustled all around the mage. However, his reprieve was short lived. As he rushed past the two men in his way, he was pushed forward and ended up catching his weight on his wrists and hands. A debilitating headache took hold. He shook his head to clear it. A Templar behind Anders had cast a staggering smite in his direction. “Fuck,” Anders cursed under his breath, breaking his mantra.

Anders scrabbled up to his feet, buying time by backing off while throwing basic attacks from his staff. He ended up backing toward the clearing the Templars had just tramped through. Though Anders’ trusty staff twirled and swung in wide arcs, it only spawned magic twice before pushing uselessly at the air. Then impotent sparks pushed sudden pains into Anders’ chest. Each subsequent attempt increased the throbbing ache further. Finally Anders bent over, reeling with light headed convulsions. The Templar who had emerged last from hiding strode near, casting a lingering silence as the other two recovered.

The strategically late Templar laughed lightly, shaking his head in mirth. He was apparently pleased to have encountered resistance and overcome it. Another, a blonde with thick sideburns grown forward into an unattractive beard, cocked his head sideways. He snarled with sarcastic disdain. “Now what do we have here?” The metal armor clanked as he strode forward and turned Anders’ face toward him. The Templar’s nose, smushed flat from repeated breaks, gave him a haughty appearance. Dull eyes under thick eyebrows belied a crass sense of humor, a single glint forming as he stared at the mage intently. Anders stared back, sizing up his enemies. His eyes opened wider as he recognized the bearded one.

“Not so miraculous now, is he, Ser Karras?” said the youngest Templar, a barely graduated brunette with an unfashionably large moustache. Neither Templar looked like they’d seen a barber for months. The brunette jabbed his sword threateningly towards Anders as if he warded off a wild beast. “I’m telling you it was some kind of trick. Probably tied some of them Qunari grenades to a Fereldan dog and threw a stick at the Chantry. Told him to go fetch. Is that was you did, dog lord? Did you kill your best bitch?”

“Are you daft?” Anders managed to wheeze out under a furrowed brow. “Or just simple minded?” Anders coughed, breathing hard in an attempt to gather his second wind. Taking advantage of the temporary weakness, Karras kicked Anders behind the knees, efficiently forcing him to the ground.

“Who’s talking, heretic?” Karras spat. “You calling Paxley daft, eh? Mark my words. I’ll make you regret every life you took today.” Ser Karras circled around Anders, making a show of enjoying the mage’s position on his knees. As sick as the attention made him, Anders took heart that they had not simply killed him already. Anders let his arm slide limply toward the ground, his face a mask of defeat, as he surreptitiously positioned his staff to make it easier to use the pointy end on the bottom as a pike.

“I wonder if he’s even a mage?” mused Ser Paxley. “Other than a light show, he don’t do much just now. No more than a tenth year in the Circle can do. Maybe he’s a poser with some kinda sick hero complex.”

“Don’t you worry, Paxley. He’s a proper mage all right,” interjected the older Templar with close cropped blonde hair and baggy wrinkles around his brow. “I’d never believe it if I didn’t see it with my own two eyes. We’re both a bit worse for wear these days, aren’t we, Anders?” The oldest Templar stepped forward with a rope in his hands, having apparently come prepared for a prolonged capture.

Anders chose this moment to grab his staff and push it toward the apparent ringleader, Karras. He landed a single blow, the full weight of his muscles barely strong enough to push the spike into the gap at the Templar’s armored waist. The cloth sash ripped open, blood joining darker red on crimson cloth.

Karras howled, screwing on an affronted scowl. He pulled his gauntleted hand back and swung it at full strength towards Anders’ face. With a sickening crunch, Anders’ nose broke under the blow. His face swung to the side. Karras yanked the staff from Anders and threw it aside. Then he yanked the mage’s head back by his ponytail and glared closely at him. “How dare you?” Karras bent low and licked the blood now flowing from Anders’ nose. “You think you can hurt me as easily as you killed the rest?” Karras’ tongue followed the blood trail, dipping into Anders’ mouth as the wound at his waist closed. 

The middle aged blonde made tsking sounds, all while using the pause in Anders’ attempt to rebel to secure the rope around his wrists. “Now, now, Karras,” he soothed. “No need to ruin his looks, is there? We’ll need to have him identified if we want to take credit for capturing him, now won’t we?”

Anders shifted his chin, pulling his mouth from Karras’ ostensibly to look up at the older Templar. “Wait, I remember you,” Anders struggled to recall. “The docks on the far side of Lake Calenhad. Ser… Kelvin?”

“Ser Caroll, you insubordinate lout,” the aging Templar corrected. “I forgot near half my life. But I never forget the face of a Circle runaway from Kinloch Hold. Especially not a repeat offender like you.”

“Oh, Maker’s balls,” Anders lamented, his head drooping back towards the ground. He suddenly felt incredibly tired. “Not this again.” He steeled himself for the lecture he knew would be coming next.

“Had quite the reputation, did our Anders here. I caught him twice myself,” the elder Templar elaborated. “The second time, he was soaking wet from swimming right across the lake from the hold to the docks. Fool apostate had the nugs to peel his robe off and offer me a ride to let him go free.”

“Did he now?” Karras rubbed his offhand against the chin beneath his beard in thought. “Bah, you’re lying. He’s a sacrilegious bastard, I’ll warrant, but look at him. He ain’t got a seductive bone in his body.” He gestured at Anders, whose malnourished figure and wan defeated face looked as sorry as indicated.

“It’s the Maker’s truth, or I’m the high priestess of Orlais,” Caroll said, brushing a hand reverently up the sword emblem on his own armor. Paxley looked down at his own armor at the sword emblazoned there.

“If you mean to tell me you turned him down,” Karras said with a laugh, “I won’t know whether to commend you for your judgment or pity your failure to take him down a peg when he needed it most.”

“Don’t talk that way to the clergy,” Caroll admonished with a grin. Then he clarified, “Now, don’t get me wrong. It got a little lonely out there on the docks. But I prefer more feminine company, if you get my drift. The bounty was more than enough to spend the weekend with my sweet lady in Wutherford.”

“So what do you say, Anders? You want me to wet you in the river first?” Caroll winked at the disheartened mage. “Or should we just jump ahead to the part where you drop your robes and beg for your freedom? Knowing Karras here, you may get your wish this time. You would be wise to cooperate.”

“Go to the Void,” Anders responded, his shoulders straight in a puffed up response despite his position.

“I don’t know about this,” worried Ser Paxley. “We already disobeyed orders by leaving the city limits. You’re not trying to turn him in… soiled, are you? Maybe we should just kill him and be done with it.” Anders tried to not react, though he felt nauseous at the irony of wanting to live through such a trauma.

“Ser Caroll, go have a talk with our young Knight, would you?” Karras pointed at the edge of the clearing by the black path, where they had met up with Anders. “I’ll give you my share of the reward. You can go talk to Lusine at the Blooming Rose. Just ask for the ‘special service’ and tell her I sent you.”

Ser Caroll crooked an eyebrow in interest. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours?” Caroll cracked a boyish grin despite his age. “Come on, Paxley, my lad.” Caroll put a gentle hand on Ser Paxley’s shoulder and led him to the edge of the clearing, leaving Karras to the shadows. “You have to help me make a decision. Who do we turn this rebel scum over to when we get him back to the Gallows, hmm?”

“Well,” Paxley answered, attaching instantly to the distraction. “I assumed the Knight Commander. Obviously.” Paxley’s tone belied his eagerness to turn his back on a potentially graphic scene. The two took a leisurely stroll to the path, looking towards fires blazing along Kirkwall’s Gallows in the distance.

“Right, right,” Ser Caroll agreed. “But which Knight Commander?” Paxley’s eyes showed his confusion, so Caroll clarified in a conspiratorial tone. “If you ask me, Meredith’s already washed up at this point.”

Meanwhile, Karras’ lack of company combined with Anders’ bound hands to embolden the Templar’s tone. “Look, I can have my fun now, or I can have it later. Every minute with me is one more minute before you’re made Tranquil. Only reason I’m offering is because you won’t feel it later. Now, open up.”

From the edge of the clearing, Caroll talked loudly. “Right of Annulment? Short of a demon infestation or a full out mutiny, the Divine’s going to ask questions. Cullen’s next in line, right? Don’t you want to get in good with the future man in charge?” Paxley made a show of considering his options carefully.

Metal rustled behind them during this conversation, followed by the clap of a metal gauntlet on an unprotected skull. “Lips over your teeth, you cur,” Karras ordered. The sound of gagging was interspersed with short pauses as Karras renewed the cleansing and silence spells necessary for solid control. “Get us good and wet, won’t you? You’ll just make it worse for yourself if you don’t.”

The sound of grunting from a throat struggling for air followed. The older mage spoke over his shoulder. “Does he have to snort like a pig?” Caroll asked. “We can hardly hear ourselves talk over here!”

Paxley looked momentarily concerned. As an aside, he asked, “You do want him to breath, don’t you?”

“Not particularly,” Ser Karras answered. A strangled sound made it clear that Ser Karras was intent to prove that Anders’ breathing was not, in fact, a prerequisite for a good time as far as he was concerned.

“Bloody pig,” Caroll interjected. “Sometimes I don’t know which is worse, the mages or Karras.”

Ser Paxley, looking uncomfortable, returned irritably to their earlier conversation. “Don’t you think Cullen might want us to follow protocol? Meredith may be mad, but he’s determined to stay loyal.”

Karras seemed determined to talk his way through his fun, sounding proud at his unwilling conquest. “Thatta boy. Damn the Maker, I knew that filthy mouth was good for something.” The others ignored it.

“If Cullen says, we take him to Meredith without another word,” Caroll agreed. He gave it like a sales pitch. “I’m just looking out for you, boy. You want to be on the fast track to Knight Captain, don’t you?”

“Well, I suppose,” Paxley considered. He tilted his head, smoothing down his moustache in thought. Then a slow grin broke over his face. “Knight-Captain Paxley does have a certain ring to it.”

“Of course it does. Helps to be the hero of the day,” Caroll said assuringly. “If I had your kind of luck, I’d be Knight Commander of Kinloch Hold instead of ferried off to Kirkwall where I forget my own birthday. You don’t want to end up like me, do you? Haha, don’t answer that. Leave me my pride, will you?”

Ser Karras’ voice rang out from the clearing. “Enough stalling, boy! You’re a slut, not a blushing maiden.”

“How’s it going over there?” Caroll inquired. The older Templar threw a smite over for good measure.

“Fine, fine,” Karras grunted. A thumping sound rang out. “Hey! Put your blasted leg down, you ass!” Ser Karras reeled back, clutching a gauntlet to his face, his voice gaining a nasal tone. “Fuck, my nose!”

“Maybe it’ll improve things,” Caroll joked to Paxley. The elder Templar pointed to his own nose, and the youngster chuckled nervously. Caroll’s expression deepened again. “Fucking Anders. The bastard can never just let things be, can he? On the boat across Lake Calenhad, he flirted with the ferryman just as brazen as you please. Later he’s getting interrogated, and he has the gall to brag that he’d never been beaten or raped. Yet. Ha! No need for beating or raping when’ve got what you want already, eh?”

Paxley gave a confirmative hum, mildly distressed at the sound of clothes rustling, metal armor shifting. The younger Templar crossed his arms across his chest, the metal scraping covering the sounds behind.

Karras called back to the pair at the edge of the clearing. “Come on, help me with his trousers.” Karras paused to cast a couple more spells, the staff whirring past in the air as Karras tossed it further aside.

“Forget it,” Caroll declined. “I’m not asking you to strip my whore down, am I? Handle it yourself.” He gave an entitled huff, crossing his arms at being asked to assist directly, an unconscious mirror of Paxley.

The sound of scuffling could be heard nearby as Karras and Anders struggled for dominance. Caroll pushed another silence their direction in absent minded support of Karras. After a moment of anguished wailing, the rustling stopped. The two Templars walked a bit further down the road, obscuring their view of the clearing with a large tree, pretending to watch the road like a pair of conscientious lookouts.

“Over the years, I kept hearing stories,” Caroll said more quietly as if blissfully unaware of the sounds behind them. “Some of the Templars liked to make an offer to those about to take their Harrowing. You know, real shame if one was to go out without ever experiencing the carnal pleasures life has to offer.” Caroll rolled his eyes in mockery. “Mage Valiant over there would run interference, give the little ones a chance to escape while he applied his silver tongue, offered himself as recompense to keep the peace.”

“What’s wrong, blasphemer?” Karras mocked. “Not going to consent this time? Oh, what a shame.” A ripping sound was followed by a harsh laugh, one muffled and then unmuffled again in quick order.

There was a renewed tussle, during which Anders managed to scrabble away. He made it halfway to the road before Paxley jumped to the side, startled by the half-naked figure crawling with a noticeable limp towards them. “Help,” croaked Anders, reaching a hand out toward the skittish youngest Templar. Anders looked unkempt, hair wild, clothes in disarray, dark circles twitching under haunted eyes.

“Don’t mind him,” Caroll advised. “If anybody asks, you’re not even here, technically. Pardon me a moment,” Caroll excused himself politely. He took a few steps to close the gap with Anders and then stomped his heavy sabaton over Anders’ right hand. With that, Karras caught up to Anders. Long fingers dug deep scratches into the moist earth as the mage was pulled back into the grass clearing.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Caroll said, returning to Paxley. “Now, where was I? Oh, yes. It didn’t take long for word to get round. For a good time, contact Anders, yes? He’ll do anything you ask. Good with the men. Sweet on the ladies. Happy to watch or be watched. Like being rough? Lucky you, he’s a healer. Just bring a lyrium potion along and he’ll cover your tracks. Cheeky bastard liked it, or so I heard.”

Karras laughed from the clearing. “Still does, boys. He still does. Don’t you, Anders?” Anders sounded indignant as he tried to reply, but the words came out muffled and ended with a yelp of pain.

“As I recall,” Caroll rambled mindlessly, “there were fewer expelled Templars in those days. Fewer bodies too, from the mages jumping off the tower.” Caroll took Paxley by the shoulder to confide an unpopular opinion. “Most protected people in all of Thedas, and they go and off themselves out of spite. Bunch of spoiled ingrates if you ask me. If I had to hear one more pampered mage apprentice going on about Anders this, Anders that, I’d have barfed up my sack lunch on their dainty silk slippers. Bastards.”

As if on cue, the sound of vomiting was audible from the clearing. Caroll awkwardly cleared his throat.

“Yes, well,” he said, throwing up his hands. “Disgusting man, Anders. Always was. He should be grateful for attention in his old age. By the maker’s red satin bed sheets, I’m starting to see it now. Anders outside the Gallows, hearing all the nasty stories about Alrik, unable to help the little ones. Getting older and less charming every year. No wonder he felt obligated to pull a terror strike out of his pants. Making Karras here pull one out of his, eh?” Carroll let out a guffaw. Paxley tried to laugh nervously and failed.

Anders’ voice rang out, furious as he cast a deep freeze with his last ounce of mana, slowing his own heart and Karras’ together. Carroll cast another lingering silence to counter Anders, halting the spell just before it reached critical mass and froze both bodies solid. Feeling the chill air, Caroll turned back and walked over to look despite his desire to avoid involvement. “Really, Anders?” Carroll admonished. “That’s just cold. You of all people know that men have needs. Have you no love for your fellow man?”

Half shielding his eyes in embarrassment, Paxley looked back at the clearing. Two half disrobed men in a tangled heap were covered in frost, Karras holding Anders down in a wrestling hold. Paxley dropped his hand, shocked. His moustache trembled slightly in concern and disgust. “How did I get myself into this?”

Carroll shot him a big reassuring grin. “It’s for a good cause, you moron. Gotta make sure we make a lesson of him, don’t we? Between that mage underground and the blasted manifesto, I’ll bet those poor mageling bastards prayed more to Anders than the Maker. If that’s not sacrilege, I don’t know what is!”

I WILL TEACH THEM THE MEANING OF SACRILEGE.

None of the Templars responded. They clearly could neither see nor hear the shimmering figure in the distance, even though the voice sounded as if it came from only a few feet away. Anders, however, heard the clarion call and responded with a mixture of fear and relief. “Justice! Is that you?” The Templars ignored what they presumed to be mad babbling on Anders’ part. The apparition strode beside Caroll and Paxley, blue armor semitranslucent against the sun. The ghostly figure shimmered.

JOIN ME IF YOU WISH TO LIVE. I WILL NEVER LET ANOTHER TOUCH YOU AGAIN. THEY WILL ALL PAY.

“No, there must be another way.” Anders looked up, eyes spilling tears that crystallized instantly. The spirit’s face was covered, the helmet’s faceguard lowered. Hard red eyes burned behind a narrow gap.

Ser Karras assumed Anders was speaking to him. “You’ll do it my way, and you’ll like it, heathen.”

THE ONLY ALTERNATIVE IS DEATH. COME, ANDERS. LOOK ME IN THE EYES AND TELL ME NO.

“I… I can’t!” Justice glowed brighter as Anders’ life force ebbed. The mage whispered, “I want to live.”

YOU ARE WEAK. AND NOW, YOU ARE MINE.

The first thing Anders felt when Justice reentered his body was a blissful muting of his senses, including and especially the debilitating pain and rampant disgust. The second thing he felt was a roaring sense of triumph, the muting of outward stimuli serving to amplify the internal feedback of Justice’s anger joining with his own. The last thing he felt was remorse, the images of Justice’s violent plans for immediate retribution causing him to reel back, horrified. Then Anders lost the battle of wills and felt nothing at all.


	3. Reflection

Anders fled. His feet were moving, limping but resolute, long before he decided which way to go. He noticed as he travelled that his senses were blissfully muted with Justice back on board. He was no longer distracted by his surroundings. Indeed, he barely noticed them. And he dared not look back at the clearing from which he came. He’d come to up the road with blood in his mouth, the overly wide breastplate from Karras’ armor in one hand, his staff in the other. He could safely assume the worst.

He should feel guilty. He should feel shame. He should feel disgusted with Ser Karras’ actions, with Sers Caroll and Paxley standing by in complicity, with Justice for responding with overwhelming violence, with himself for failing to refuse the most dangerous entity he knew. He should feel pain, terrible pain. Anders took stock. Broken nose. Two broken fingers on the right hand. Torn ligament in the left knee. Sprung right ankle. Torn bowel, no surprise. Whiplash, but luckily no concussion. Various bruises and scrapes. Anders tried to heal himself, but his mana ran perpetually low, forcing him to triage his wounds.

Justice was quiet for the moment. Sated. It was both familiar by now and disturbing in context. Anders would have been entirely calm if his hands weren’t covered in blood, and if he wasn’t still in danger. Anders had only two feelings left: fear and a desire to escape. All he wanted was to get away from himself. Or rather, part of himself. The part he didn’t ask for. And that’s what scared him the most. He never said yes. Apparently, yes was no longer required. All Justice needed now was the absence of no.

He could run now, but he could not hide. Wherever he went, there Justice would be. Eating him alive. How long until Justice grew restless and took over again? An hour? A few hours? Not long enough. And the worst part. The. Worst. Part. Was that he still didn’t want to turn himself in. Maker help him.

There were so many paths Anders didn’t take. He didn’t follow the coast west to Cumberland or east to Ostwick. He didn’t lose himself on the Wounded Coast. He didn’t join Isabela on Castillon’s swift boat. He didn’t travel to Ferelden. He didn’t head to Starkhaven to beat Sebastian to an inevitable confrontation. He didn’t dally at Sundermount, seeking sanctuary with the elves. He didn’t enter the Deep Roads knowing few would follow him there. He didn’t stride forth to Tevinter to seek a new life.

Instead, he traveled by foot through the Bone Pit. It was the least likely direction he could go, and therefore it was the perfect direction. As he knew they would, the Fereldan miners repaid his generosity in healing them in years past from poisonous spiders, dragonling fire, attacks from the undead, and all manner of cave-ins and nasty falls. The miners gathered their packed lunches and canteens, their climbing tools and camping gear into a survivalist’s backpack. They told nobody he had gone that way. Anders crossed the valley where he had fought a mature dragon with Hawke. He thanked the pile of skulls for their discretion as he passed. He took the winding path on the other side and headed north.

Past the Bone Pit was a forest full of yellow leaved trees growing tall in rich black soil. The first leaves had already fallen and left the smell of rotting plants in the air. Dark birds of varying sizes watched from the trees. Occasionally one remarked on the passing of a distant humanoid relative, or perhaps they were affronted at the feathers of their brethren serving as mere ornamentation. Anders came upon a fork in the road he traveled. The sign gave him directions to several places. It was time to choose a path.

Wildhaven. It summarized how he felt and what he needed in a single word. So he went there.

Anders knew he would be followed. The other fork in the road led to Starkhaven among other places. It was the more traveled road, wheel indentations digging into brown mud along a gravel path. A verdant shrub reached an errant arm into the road near thirty paces beyond the fork. With any luck Sebastian would head that way first. Anders pulled off a few raven feathers from his coat. He left one on the shrub as if it had caught on a branch. He dropped the other two further along the gravel road. Then he crossed through the wood and rejoined the smaller path, the black trodden path, the one that led to his fate.

That should convince the sanctimonious princeling to head towards home, he thought. May he be detained there indefinitely by his idiot cousin and the power struggles of the notoriously shallow nobles.

Anders continued on to Wildhaven, his steps lighter. Luckily, most of his injuries could be healed in spurts. Still, Anders felt pains in his chest if he walked too fast. Just when he thought everything but the pull of his chest was healed, he felt a tickling on his lip. He rubbed the moisture off, finding blood on his hand when he lifted it away. His nose was bleeding still. No, that would never do. Anders had not kept his nose perfectly straight all these many years just to have it bent crooked by a Templar like Karras.

Anders pinched his nose to stem the flow. Soon a river weaved past the path, a small wooden bridge with missing planks crossing over it. Anders stopped beside the bridge. It would take but a moment. He peered down and confirmed his fears. His nose was broken, slanting sideways. He concentrated on lining the bones up straight, turning his face to the side and back to confirm the positioning from all angles. Then he cast the gentlest of spells, just enough to knit the bone to let it heal on its own. For some reason, this triggered another spasm in his chest. He doubled over, feeling drained, tired, woozy.

The effort to heal left a slash of dried blood across Anders’ nose. He dipped his hands into the river to wash it off. Then he washed his nose and some additional dried blood under his chin. He surveyed his clothes and mused that Justice had been disturbingly strategic in his wreaking of massive carnage. He would pass as normal at a brief glance, even in a city fully of people. Hopefully, the smell would pass.

The water was brackish and filthy, but Anders found he didn’t care. He drank liberally and without hesitation. To taste anything at all was a privilege. As the ripples cleared, he noticed the rest of his reflection. Dark circles under his eyes. His shoulders bonier than even a month ago. Hair dull. And something just so very tired in his expression. His hand gripped at his chest, though he didn’t remember putting it there. It looked like he was trying to cradle a baby that wasn’t present. Sad, really. So sad.

“I’m already dead,” Anders told his reflection. “I just don’t know it yet. Be a doll and don’t tell me.” His reflection told him the same thing, which turned out to be rather self-defeating all around. Anders sighed and returned to his journey. He tried to pick up the pace, but the chest pains returned again.

Anders had no idea how many others would be chasing him, blackening the little used path further still. Nor could he guess how wide the path would become years later from the careful retracing of his steps.

He certainly did not guess that a certain ex-slave elf from Tevinter would see right through his little ruse. Anders had noticed his frequent arguments with the warrior, but he never noticed how closely he’d been watched. Perhaps this was due to his own stubborn refusal to look at an elf he assumed hated him.


	4. Reactions

Fenris dutifully ran Hawke’s gauntlet through the Gallows on behalf of the mages. He was taken aback by the request and felt somewhat disgusted at himself for agreeing so readily. Still, as the battle ended, he felt relieved to have freed himself from his debt to the Champion for his critical aid in killing Danarius.

Sebastian, for his part, left when it became clear that Hawke intended to spare Anders. Suspecting Anders would run, the prince deemed it preferable to face him well prepared. He sought a shady merchant, paying an outrageous sum for a collar advertised as having the ability to cut mages off from the Fade. This would nullify Anders’ ability to cast. It might silence or suppress his demon as well. The collar weighing in his pocket heavy as a crown, Sebastian soon considered alternatives to Anders’ death.

Word of the rebellion spread within an hour. Fenris and Sebastian met outside the city gates soon after Meredith fell. As a search was organized, they sidled together wordlessly. They discussed in hushed tones their options for securing horses to speed their way. Soon Fenris and Sebastian pursued the renegade mage on horseback, starting off north while larger search parties headed east and west.

They came across a visitor to Kirkwall who was fleeing northward from the chaos. She claimed to have seen a man matching Anders’ description travelling on foot toward the Bone Pit. Sebastian insisted they stop by, even though it seemed an unlikely hiding place for a mage on the run. The foreman told them Anders had not been by. He relayed this before either Fenris or Sebastian had mentioned the mage by name. It was a mistake the gruff man recognized too late and did not repeat. Before it could be recalled, his gaze flicked toward a thin dark path leading from the far side of a valley nestled among the mines.

With the Bone Pit behind them, the pair finally discussed their plans once they reached their target. They loped along at a pace that kept their horses fresh and allowed them the opportunity to speak.

“Anders has been fighting his demon for some time,” Fenris explained. He pointed to his own chest with one hand while guiding his horse with the other, swift motions displaying his agitation. “If he believes his battle a lost cause, then the answer is clear. I only hope to reach him before his demon kills again.” The elf closed his hand into a fist over his heart, mentally practicing for the inevitable confrontation.

“Aye, on that part we agree,” said Sebastian. “May Andraste guide us to him through the darkness. But Anders has committed a grave sin against the Maker. His actions require penance, Fenris. Not mercy. I have in my possession a mage collar. With it, we can drag him in submission to a public tribunal.”

Fenris frowned, looking over at the prince seated gracefully on a pristine white steed while the elf gingerly straddled a black colt. “I fail to understand what purpose a trial would serve. There are a good number of witnesses to his confession, are there not? Is there any other fitting penalty but death?”

“A second hand confession will not end this foolish rebellion,” Sebastian insisted. “People must see Anders for what he is, a criminal without honor or remorse. We must shed light on his madness, and thereby send a warning to the other Circles. That is the story the Free Marches deserves to hear.”

“Surely the rebellion is more liable to spread while he still lives,” Fenris countered. “A trial will provide Anders with the perfect opportunity to spout his nonsense.” The two reached the top of a rise, looking down at a black path that twined into a yellow forest and to farmlands in the far distance. “I made a vow to myself years ago that I would never allow Kirkwall to spawn a second empire in Tevinter’s image. By proposing the removal of Templar oversight, Anders would create an evil he cannot comprehend.”

“Anders’ ideas are already out in the open, in that blasted manifesto.” Sebastian rounded the same rise. He gestured at the landscape. “If Anders dies without neutral witnesses, people will claim to see him in every city in support of every Circle. Nor will we be able to counter those who hail him as a martyr.”

Fenris huffed stubbornly. “Then why not make it your job to ensure that it is Elthina who is hailed the martyr? The public will be satisfied enough about Anders if we produce a recognizable body.”

“At first, perhaps. But in the long run?” Sebastian paused, wary. “Perhaps we should agree to disagree.” Fenris nodded his approval to this idea, and they continued along the road without further argument.

Further along, in a clearing to one side of the path, the remains of multiple Templars lay strewn across an area several yards across. So many limbs littered the field that it was hard to guess the number of dead. Flesh was rent, burnt or frozen, and in a few cases gnawed upon. Fenris noted but did not comment upon the scene’s central figure. A bearded Templar with a gory lower torso reached out towards the remains of his own genitalia across the clearing. Fenris knew immediately what had happened, who had done it and why. He pinched his nose to stave off a headache before moving on. Sebastian for his part simply assumed that Anders had viciously attacked the first Templars he happened to run across.

Meanwhile, Meredith’s other Templars were bruised but not fully beaten. Cullen would need to choose between licking their wounds and restoring Kirkwall or setting off for Anders with what knights he could gather. Seeing that the wounded around him outnumbered the healthy, Cullen sent news to Orlais and requested new orders. Included in his letter was his concern that some local Templars, like Karras and Paxley, now missing, would seek out Anders whether the order was given or not. He’d begun questioning Meredith’s Tranquil assistant Elsa, seeking clues on Meredith’s plans should the mages rebel at last.

No doubt the word would spread quickly from the letter’s receiver, the Templar’s Knight Vigilant, to Justinia the Divine and from there to High Seeker Lambert. The Templars would not be the only parties under Chantry rule to receive new orders. Indeed, one of the savvier spies within the Orlesian court would pass the information to Empress Celene for her review. More secretive spies would make sure the Black Divine heard news within a week. Valhail would take his own special interest in recent events.

As news spread, mages would have a choice to make in every Circle in Thedas outside Tevinter. Some Circles would rebel and emerge victorious or be crushed to dust. Either way, no new mages would be imprisoned there. Those that held on to a fragile peace awhile longer would copy pages of Anders’ manifesto in place of the Chant of Light. The more confident Circles would begin adding illustrations. Within two weeks, copies of the manifesto would reach as far as Minrathous, Denerim, and Par Vollen. Old enemies entered in uneasy truces would seek to gather information on one another to determine who was more weakened by the latest events and whether breaking the peace could herald a victory.

The shamans in Rivain and the Mortalitaxi in Nevarra would be among the last to hear. Having isolated themselves from the Circles as best they could, they could now choose to drop their neutrality in favor of mage solidarity. In doing so, they would risk genocide, perhaps perishing to the Chantry’s retribution.

Isolated tribal cultures would receive the news last of all. Yet the Fog Warriors of Seheron would find the tales of Kirkwall’s heroes and villains of interest to them. One of the figures of Kirkwall legend would match all too well the description of a reknown figure from their own recent history. Could the identity be verified, there might be a way to bargain their information for freedom from Tevinter’s magisters.

All this would have been completely incomprehensible to Anders as he ran on fleet foot toward Wildhaven. He had already gone half mad. Hearing the dominos fall in his future would have sent him irreparably around the bend. It was good fortune, then, that nobody knew how bad things could get.

Well, almost nobody. In a swampy forest, an old woman with a hundred names gazed into a birdbath commandeered as a scrying pool. As events unfolded before her, she laughed her hearty, boisterous laugh many times. She would interfere only if events as she foresaw them threatened to go off track. Otherwise, things were going exactly as anticipated for her, her daughters, and her beloved grandson.

Fenris was the only one in Thedas who could neither predict the future nor would he be surprised by it. He had learned to trust the tensing of his gut. Something about following Anders made Fenris incredibly nauseous. The sense of danger was overwhelming, and he sensed Sebastian felt the same. They each nursed their own private worries about the ways in which Anders’ rebellion might spread further harm.

One would think this sickening feeling might slow down Fenris’ pursuit or lessen his fortitude. Instead, it sped him along. He sped his horse in hopes of seeing Anders one more time before fadelight blue or the glassy cast of death took over those honey brown eyes. Fenris had thought he was watching carefully. Thought he knew Anders well. Thought he even knew Justice, inasmuch as an ignorant cynic could. But he could not answer one burning question. Why? Those brown eyes would not, could not do this thing.

Fenris knew the honest expression on the mage’s face would tell him what happened even if no words were spoken. Nothing else would ever tell him, and the question would sear at his soul eternally. If there was a part of him that wanted to see Anders again just to see him, he need not admit that to himself. He certainly need not admit it to Sebastian, who had grown hardened against the mage’s many accusations.

His lack of curiosity and observation did not prevent the Chantry Brother from identifying the black feathers Anders had left for him to find. He even took the bait. “Look, do you see? Anders fled in such a rush that he left an unwitting trail behind.” Sebastian dismounted and took the feather from the bush.

“So it appears.” Fenris idled at the crossroads, looking as far down each path as he could. He shook his head at the apostate’s transparent attempt to lay a false trail. The mage’s new coat had never dropped feathers before, or Fenris would recall it. Indeed, he might have taken and kept one. As it stood, he looked at the feather Sebastian held with thinly veiled disgust. He had seen it all and still been blind.

The elf pointed to the smaller path to the left. “Something tells me that his is the blacker path.”

The prince frowned. He was not one for following mere instinct, preferring instead to plan for all possible contingencies. It was the same trait that had prompted him to purchase the collar. Sebastian had always preferred having multiple promising options, leaving nothing to chance. It was the only reason he survived while the rest of his family fell to the ever-present intrigues of the Starkhaven court.

“Yours is a mere guess,” Sebastian decided. “I will not take a hunch over evidence leading to my home.” The prince stepped forward, spotting additional feathers. He ground them into the gravel with his boot.

“Then don’t,” Fenris said, sounding as frustrated as he felt. “We will part ways here.”

“And I might never see you again.” Sebastian’s face grew sad. “Fenris, think hard on this before you act on impulse. Anders is a dangerous man, especially now. Who knows what he’s capable of?” The archer held his hands out wide. “We should gather support from Starkhaven before chasing him in earnest.”

“By then, it may be too late,” Fenris almost yelled. “He is a threat to all of Thedas. You said so yourself.”

“Yes, but it’s not the threat of a single day I worry about,” the prince clarified. “It’s the long term threat of sedition.” The prince returned to his steed and mounted it. He turned his horse to face Fenris openly.

“Then it’s settled,” Fenris said, refusing to back down. He gestured with agitation. “You will gather your army in Starkhaven. I will follow the alternate fork in the road to ensure we maintain his whereabouts.”

Sebastian sighed, “If you insist.” The prince finally showed signs of resigning himself to a parting of ways.

“I do,” Fenris confirmed. He pointed his horse towards the smaller black path, ready to move on.

“Then go. I will pray that the Maker set two paths before us for a reason,” Sebastian said. His voice dropped to a whisper before returning in volume a sentence later. “Andraste, Lady of Sorrows, lead us as the Maker wills. But know this, Fenris. Once my army is assembled, we march with or without you.”

“I understand.” They parted ways with a nod, unsure whether they would ever see each other again.

As Fenris learned not thirty minutes later, the real trail was marked not by feathers but by a tiny piece of brownish cloth. A finger in length, it was covered in blood and bore the marks of a furrowed surface. Anders’ boot. Fenris knew the pattern on sight. The blood was still wet, a sign that he finally drew near.

Looking into the river’s surface as Anders must have done, Fenris saw his reflection. As always, he was shocked and disappointed by what he saw. He was still the monster Danarius created. Perhaps Fenris would make Anders look at his reflection again, make him see himself as Fenris now saw the abomination. Nothing could cause shame like seeing a stranger looking back. Fenris could think of no better punishment.

No, that was wrong. There was one better punishment Fenris had in mind. And he would not falter now.


	5. Sanctuary

What Anders needed was to think. Where in Andraste’s knickers was Justice? Perhaps they could have talked this out, or at least brainstormed together until they reached an accord. Without him, Anders didn’t know what to think. It didn’t help that he could remember only portions of the day’s events.

No, he was fooling himself. How can you negotiate with someone you can no longer trust? Justice was a liar, damn him. Anders was nearly dead of neglect even before their plan came to fruition. Justice clearly expected to sacrifice Anders to cover his tracks, and Anders had complied. He had complied because he believed they were in it together. They weren’t. Justice was just hitching a ride. Anders felt the itching at the back of his mind from where Justice was irritated at being back in his body. They were never one.

But couldn’t it be close enough to at least pretend? Without Justice, Anders was alone. Lonely. He never wanted to be left alone with his own thoughts again. His thoughts were disturbing when they weren’t shallow or sad, full of darkspawn and the whisper of old gods, full of chasing Templars and demons offering freedom, full of creeping shadows in dark cells, full of cherished memories of fleeting days on the run spent hedonistically, full of young mages crying for help in the face of banishment and torture. 

Anders thrilled to all that danger, part of him. He was always a danger to himself, often a danger to others. Justice had generously shared the burden with him, the first and only to do so for any length of time. Anders left every lover he ever had, either to keep them safe or because he was convinced they would never understand him. Usually both. Yet even so, he still sought danger like a moth seeks light.

Whether happy or miserable, he was full of life and eager for freedom. And then Justice came and changed everything. The fade spirit’s pronouncements about his inherent selfishness and the plight of other mages was all too true. But what convinced Anders was the simplicity of having his back against the wall, trapped even within the Grey Wardens by a former Templar watchman intent on limiting his freedom. Justice gave him new freedoms in the form of additional years of life. But by the end of those years, Anders no longer expected or even wanted his own freedom. He wanted only to be released from the burden of living with the weight of the world on his shoulders. The weight of Justice in his mind.

Anders was both relieved and frightened at being alone in his own thoughts even temporarily. There were gaps in his memory, in his body and soul. Justice had taken a growing place inside him over many years, then suddenly left. He just as suddenly returned, not long after, only he no longer fit where he used to live. Anders was bleeding out from the inside, slowly going mad by inches. He could feel it. His mental fog came in part from light headedness due to loss of blood only partly caused by Templars.

Anders wanted Justice to help him make sense of it all, but he also wanted to be free of the burden he carried. To be his own person. To stand on his own two feet, even for just a little while, before the end. He wanted to feel again, as he had in that brief time before Karras forced Anders back into Justice’s unyielding grip. As Anders’ ability to think returned, it hit him like a sledgehammer. He’d made the same terrible mistake a second time. Would he never learn a single lesson in life? He was an abject failure.

He needed to run. Anders was running from the consequences of past actions. But were they his actions, or Justice’s actions? Was he a victim, a perpetrator, or an accomplice? He needed to stop long enough to sort it out, but he couldn’t risk being caught up to, not yet. What he needed was to hide. Somewhere good. Somewhere they would never think to find him. His pursuers would pass his hiding place and move on. But where? They would search every hollow, cross every river, climb over every mountain.

Anders spotted the town of Wildhaven ahead as the road sign had promised. It was a larger place than Calenhad, larger than Vigil’s Keep, but smaller than Denerim or Amaranthine. It was a way station for travelers and a natural stop in the trade route between Nevarra and the Free Marches. Anders looked over the buildings in search of a place to rest, to think. He would not risk more innocent lives by seeking aid at a commoner’s homestead. The nobler houses would be too dangerous. It would seem almost natural to idly browse the local storefronts, but he would surely be spotted there and easily followed.

He might find a dark corner in the local tavern. There would be hot food and drink. But the idea of food made him ill, and getting drunk sounded all too tempting. Tired as he was, he might drown in a mug of ale. Or he would lose check on his temper, hurt people. He still felt the residual rage from the morning, and desperation clung to him like a widow. Even if he kept himself in check, there was no jangling in his pockets. He could not pay. So if he did not start a bar fight one way, he would start it another.

His Templar pursuers naturally assumed he was a single entity, one who blew up the Kirkwall Chantry in the name of mage freedom, a righteous crusader or a fool. Maybe they were right; maybe they weren’t. Either way, he could behave counter to those expectations. Where would someone guilty of such a crime never go? Anders smirked as he surveyed a small Chantry. Sanctuary. There would be only a mother and a few sisters there. The city would have Templars, but they would be few and spread out to patrol the busier city streets. The chantry would be used to passing visitors. Private. Quiet. Perfect.

This peace would last only a matter of hours at most. Eventually other refugees from Kirkwall would arrive. Some would visit the Chantry to petition for aid. Anyone from Kirkwall would be on high alert, and the mood would spread through the city. He would need to leave before the locals put two and two together. Meanwhile, there would be a window of opportunity. Anders would be a fool to waste it.

As he strode with quiet confidence down Wildhaven’s dusty streets, he noticed a colorful wooden board in front of the chantry. It announced the short term placement of a travelling theater company. The play was a reenactment of the life and death of Andraste, scheduled to play in Chantries across Thedas with the express blessing of the Divine Justinia. Hence the local Chantry was being used as a makeshift stage for daily shows. A blonde woman in her thirties dressed vaguely like Andraste stood outside the Chantry door with a handful of tickets, a small table with a tin box for donations beside her. Not so quiet then. Fine. If the Chantry was anything but blatantly on fire, they would assume he was elsewhere, surely.

Anders had no money. He also knew he looked as bad as he felt. Slumping his shoulders and dragging his feet, he wandered hollow eyed past the Chantry door without so much as a glance at the blonde woman. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that she opened her mouth to speak before closing it again. No doubt she spotted the dirty strips of cloth used to patch up his forlorn clothing. He was a Darktown resident, after all. He smirked after he passed her and found a seat on the pew a couple of rows from the back. It would do. He shoved the pack he’d carried from the Bone Pit under the pew with his staff.

The room was half full, but most of the participants were crowded towards the front for the best view Anders let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Blankets covered the stained glass windows, the only lights coming from the blankets’ edges and a series of lanterns placed in a rectangle at the front. The lectern for the holy book had been moved to the back of the room. In its place was a small raised stage with a curtain drawn in front. The curtain was held up by brass poles, and on the right side another curtain led to a third pole, closing off the aisle on that side of the room. Offstage area for the performers, perhaps?

Anders heard rustling preparations for the coming show. Curiosity getting the better of him, he left his seat to peer into a gap in the curtain on the right side of the room. In addition to a rack of costumes and a box full of props, Anders noted a strange apparatus of metal and glass. Small clear jugs of water sat waiting below a series of metal chains. The chains in turn followed an intricate pattern before leading to metal lines overhead, some holding bells, others with turning gears. The last led to a metal pole at the back of the stage, currently covered by a stand painted to represent the Dark Spire of Minrathous.

A few more stragglers joined the audience before the blonde woman quietly closed the door and padded to the curtained area. Anders closed the curtain as she entered, though not before she dropped a metal chain into one of the glass jugs. A bell attached to the chain twinkled insistently. Members of the small crowd whispered to each other in anticipation as Anders returned to his seat. After a moment, the curtain was pulled back to reveal a tall older man wearing white robes and a fake white beard. He strode to the front of the stage on sandaled feet as the bell quieted. With a booming baritone, he began.

“Andraste was born of simple means. A slave’s daughter, she was raised upon the shore of the Minanter River,” he droned. A wistful melody rose to the air from behind the curtain, the product of a lone violinist. Anders worried he wouldn’t be able to think with all this racket going on. The old man intoned, “She tended fields and secretly stole her master’s books to learn the art of the written word.”

“The art of magic, you mean,” Anders grumbled to himself. Then it occurred to him that he could likely empty the space by heckling the stage relentlessly enough. Of course, this would tend to draw attention. Anders shuffled uncomfortably, searching in vain find a comfortable position to sit on the wooden pew.

The woman dressed as Andraste walked onto the stage behind the older man as if on her way to somewhere else. She held a book in her arm. The violin stopped, and another man followed her onstage, grabbing her arm and causing her to drop the book. He was young, thin with brown hair and a long fake moustache beneath a hooked nose. He wore a crimson velvet mockery of a magister’s robes. The actor grabbed the book from the ground, showed it to Andraste, and shook her by the arms. Andraste yanked the book back from the magister’s hands and ran, sobbing loudly, vanishing behind the curtain again.

The bearded actor continued. “Andraste read of the old gods and the magisters of Imperial history. She read of the wonders of the world far and wide. She was so lovely that her master took an unnatural interest.” The magister parted his robes to reveal dark trousers, stroking his chin in thought and twirling his moustache. The crowd responded with hisses and boos. It was shaping into quite the melodrama.

Anders definitely would not be able to think in peace with this play going on. His mind wandered. Was this what it was like for Fenris, Anders wondered? Did Danarius take an “unnatural interest” in him? Without memories, he would have had little emotional recourse. He might not even know what he was defending against until it was too late. Or he might not want to defend himself, not knowing any other alternative. Perhaps he had been glad for any attention from someone he necessarily relied on. Hrm.

The baritone returned. “Andraste begged her master’s forgiveness that she may reach the age of consent before he took her. On the morning of her birthday, Andraste fled her master to see the world she read so much about.” The begging and fleeing were diligently pantomimed on-stage. “Through her cleverness and curiosity, she remained a virgin pure of heart.” One of the older theater goers cheered.

“Oh, sure she did!” Anders yelled from the back row. “As sure as Maferath’s my great grand uncle!”

The crowd murmured. Several younger ladies giggled. A few among the audience turned their faces towards the back to look over at Anders. Anders smirked, thoughts of Justice temporarily put aside. It was impulse that started it. But now that he was spotted, he might as well continue in his mockery. Anders had rather strong opinions on several clever obfuscations he perceived within the Chant of Light.

Oh, this was going to be fun. Somewhere deep inside Anders, a second voice grumbled in annoyance.


	6. Addiction

Justice blamed Anders for everything. If Anders and the Hero of Ferelden hadn’t come to the Black Marshes, he would never have been sucked from the Fade to the other side. If Anders had not told him the horror stories from his life and the lives of other mages, Justice would have seen little reason to stay. Anders encouraged him to understand Kristoff and his wife, introducing Justice to the concepts of sorrow and of permanent change. Then, as Kristoff’s body grew unusable, Anders’ flashy provocations drew the ill wind of Templar scrutiny ever nearer. When a Templar joined the Grey Wardens, they both knew it was just a matter of time before it came to a head. Anders should have left then, but he didn’t. Instead he shielded himself with Justice’s company, even though the corpse was too weak to provide much aid. Justice felt obligated to offer a joining when Anders’ life was in danger. Still, Anders could have refused.

Anders should have known that any saving from Templars would be short lived at best, even with Justice on his side. He should have kept to rootless running, not swerved toward Kirkwall when he heard that his former lover Karl was stationed there. Or he should have left after Karl was dead, resisted Justice’s insistence that Kirkwall was the height of injustice and therefore required their aid. He should certainly not have doted on Hawke, following the Champion from one misadventure to another. Perhaps without the constant distraction, they could have written a manifesto elegant enough to persuade even the hardened Chantry sisters. He should have taken better care of himself, tried harder, been more careful.

He certainly should not have used Justice to free Hawke from Idunna’s influence, all in the effort of tracking down a Templar recruit who had gone missing. By doing so, Anders exposed them both to sexualized blood magic. Justice had only the vaguest concept of desire before that day. After it he became by turns fascinated and disgusted, though it was only the disgust that Anders perceived. After deciding never to use such magic, what Justice learned from Idunna’s corruption was how to manipulate others. Through lies and obfuscation, one gains an advantage. Justice found he could do the same.

Anders should have known better than to go with Hawke to the Tethras estate to assist Varric in seeking out his older brother. He should never have offered Justice’s connection to the Fade as a temporary salve for Bartrand’s madness. Such aid had cost Justice dearly. During Bartrand’s moments of lucidity, Justice stood captivated by the red lyrium song, the one that had been controlling the dwarf’s mind. Through his connection to Bartrand, Justice heard every note and could never again forget the melody.

It was so unlike the blue lyrium song that reminded Justice of home. That song was present in this world too, in untapped veins of lyrium ore and in carefully refined lyrium potions and through a crude ring given to him while he resided in Kristoff’s body. Where Fenris’ lyrium brands rang out a refined melody in the same style, the red lyrium was a whole new form of music. It was fierce, violent, passionate, and cruel. The blue lyrium song was soft, soothing, a lullaby. The red lyrium song was a war march, a symphony of greed. If hearing it was a shock, no longer hearing it was an implosive case of withdrawal.

Justice looked at lyrium and the Fade in a whole new way after hearing the red song. He started keeping the spare lyrium potions from their adventures. Anders rarely used them in his clinic. Justice could hear them calling at all hours from beneath the floorboards. And then there was the book the Hero of Ferelden once gave him, “Lyrium: Voice of the Maker.” He had all but forgotten it, but now. Now. It read like a set of surreal instructions for a drug addict. He wanted. And the book whispered he could have.

Fenris could give him. Give him lyrium. He could hold the song inside his body. He could turn it red Together, they would be invincible. They could make it a world where Justice always prevailed. He would not need to go home to the Fade. He would make this world in his own image, a red world.

Of course, Anders would have to go. Anders was weakening in any case. He was no match for Justice and his addiction, his newfound willingness to plot and lie and scheme. Anders was a trusting fool who believed what he was told, believed because he no longer knew where he left off and Justice began.

Justice knew. He came from the Fade. He must proceed to the red lyrium song. There was no other path. What was already a fraught relationship became downright hostile as Justice’s hunger for violence in Fenris’ presence urged Anders to words of challenge and insult. He had hoped the end result would be a careless Fenris thrusting his hand into Anders’ chest, where Justice could take what he wanted at last.

It never happened. Justice never stopped hoping for it, though. So in the middle of the night, when Anders thought he was sleeping, Justice sometimes uncapped a lyrium potion and stroked the contents across their body while thinking of Fenris. He almost got caught, once. Anders woke up with a sticky chest, the image still burned in his brain of Fenris’ fireball charred body being melted down to divide the lyrium from the flesh. The ignorant mage considered it just another bad dream. He had avoided Fenris more after that, to Justice’s chagrin. It made the fade spirit even more desperate to hear the red song.

When Fenris’ brands sang, Justice pined. He could be forever sated inside Fenris’ body. The addiction would no longer control his thoughts. But Fenris was averse due to his experiences in Tevinter. Justice would need to be much, much stronger to take over Fenris’ body without his consent. In the Fade, he would have no chance at all. In Kirkwall, there was hope. He could build power from the city’s strength.

For years, Justice simply nursed his idle hope while Anders slept. Then one day he felt a far off whisper. Somewhere in Kirkwall, the red song was being played anew. It was hammered into a new concerto, sinewy curves of an ancient form become proud sharp lines with a hilt of benediction. But Justice would recognize the thrumming blood song anywhere. With the temptation so near, he could no longer sit idle.

The spirit leapt into action. Justice had read some missives from the legendary Gang of Three. He began using Anders’ rest hours to catalogue the underground passages beneath Darktown. Eventually he came across Xebenceck the Undying, a desire demon that he would have scorned earlier in his evolution. She understood what he wanted, what he needed. She assured him that Fenris could be had, that there was power enough to win him. She gave him a tome. Justice hid it in Anders’ clinic beneath the floorboards.

And so it began. Justice told Anders about the tome as soon as the mage was ready to hear it. It was easy to convince the weak willed idealist that it was inevitable Kirkwall would need the tome’s answer. They would rip the thin veil at the Chantry. The pull of the Fade through the tear would allow Justice to detach from the mage’s body. Imbued with otherworldly power from using the forbidden tome, Justice would forcibly invade the elf’s sturdy body and claim the lyrium brands as his own via the red song.

The plan went much as expected, with one small surmountable glitch. Justice gave Anders just enough leeway to consent to their plan. He blocked any and all attempts at true independence. They worked together to choose just the right words to convince Hawke to assist them with a feat Hawke could never understand. They drove their body to its limits finishing the preparations and wrapping up Anders’ life. When Anders thought he slept, Justice finished his manifesto and prepared per the tome’s instructions. It was only belatedly that Justice realized that he had pushed the mage nearly to the point of death.

Justice was ready. Anders would never be ready, but this was to be expected. In the end, Justice had to take over their body long enough to complete the walk from Darktown to Hightown to reach the Chantry. Had he been less careful, Anders would have turned them around and risked it all to warn the only person he trusted to stop them both. Luckily, the fade spirit regained control as quickly as it was lost. No longer willing to take chances on his weak cohabitant, Justice detonated the explosive himself.

It served them right. It served the needs of Justice. If it also served his darkest desires, no one else knew.

Justice had not felt anything so powerful since the Black Marshes. The Chantry’s demise was a glorious rush. Just as Xebenceck predicted, it was enough power to gently tear the Fade, enough for Justice to leave Anders’ body with their shared consent. If that body was unable to last long without a fade spirit taking its customary place, that was just more unfortunate but necessary collateral damage. In a final fit of practicality, Justice urged Anders to ask Hawke to martyr him. It would be an easier death by far.

Fenris was the first to arrive on the scene. Justice hovered near the elf, straining to get in, his spirit a steady presence serving only to irritate the lyrium warrior. Had he left Anders’ body too soon? Did he not absorb the full brunt of the energy? But no, he was as strong as predicted. It was as if Fenris’ maker foresaw the threat and took measures to keep all spirits out. Lyrium took its place not only outside but inside as well. The inner lyrium brands were like a fence, keeping Fenris safe from invasion. Justice could sense it was possible to slip through the slats with enough power. He was close. But not close enough.

As Justice debated his next move, Meredith stormed onto the scene. She was a healthy woman, a strong Templar with a sure sense of right and wrong, certain she was on the right side. If she stood on the opposite side of the one Anders preached, Justice sensed she was surer of herself than Anders had ever been. More important was the sword she carried on her back. It called to him. It sang a red lyrium song. And from her body, he could command the sword, command the song to sing to his heart’s content.

Justice made his fatal mistake the second he abandoned his original target and went for Meredith instead. She was the easier objective, the only immediately viable one. However, her anger mixed with his volatile presence made for a combustible combination. After a brief period of integration, they soared together. He licked the red sword with his spirit, exulting himself to distraction, while the battle raged on around them. Every soul they cut down brought them further into madness, into delusions of grandeur. In the end, it was too unstable a synthesis, Meredith and Justice and the sword together.

They perished. Or rather, Meredith did. The sword melted into her body. Justice drank all he could before escaping through the charred husk’s eyes at the last possible moment. And then he fled.

He knew Anders like the back of his hand, knew exactly where to go, knew what directions the mage would take. Justice arrived too late to save Anders from shame, but he at least prevented an early death. Justice served as sole judge and executioner of the miscreants who misused their self-righteous power over others. He deemed them unworthy and meted out their punishment with grim satisfaction. If he overstepped with violence, it was with a furious claiming. Anders was his to destroy, and his alone. The filthy mortals with their sick corruption would never lay a hand on his Anders again. Never again!

As with the first time Justice merged into Anders, the mage lost consciousness for a short time. Justice tore the breastplate from the worst of the Templars, leaving it in Anders’ hand as proof justice had come to pass. Then he succumbed to the exhaustion of the day’s events, retreating deep into Anders’ mind.

While Justice recouped, Anders made his way to a theater in Wildhaven. Stage actors called each other the names of fabled characters from the Chant of Light and made to reenact history. The actors crowded around a metal pole surrounded by wooden branches to represent Andraste’s pyre. Anders countered by accusing Andraste’s prop children of being not of the Maker’s immaculate lineage, but of Shartan’s instead. City residents did not appreciate his audience participation. Several were filing out, annoyed.

Justice disapproved of the mage’s insistence on drawing attention to himself. But as the spirit recovered and regained his place in Anders’ mind, he found himself no longer wary of capture. He surveyed the room, from the blanketed windows to the metal wires overhead. It would make for a good last stand. Hoping he could again pass from Anders’ body upon the mage’s death, Justice strategized in secret.

Anders was laughing. It was the first time Justice could remember such a thing in over a year. If he didn’t already know that the body was no longer able to support itself on its own, Justice would have thought the mage better off without him. As it stood, Justice found himself hungry for a new host, a better host. With the spirit no longer fitting in the mage’s body, he was a dead man walking whether he remained a host or not. But Anders was a natural at drawing forth the ire of others. It was just a matter of time before a more powerful host arrived to capture or kill him. Yes. Let them come. Justice would be ready.

Justice would be served.


	7. Induction

The Chantry door swung open, jarring sunlight revealing the parlor tricks behind the illusions onstage. The Maker’s beard was held on with a string. The ropes securing Andraste to the Pyre were attached with buttons. The magical twinkling that served as a musical theme to divine occasional visits came from a contraption of bells and wires beside the stage powered from an apparatus behind thin red curtains.

As soon as the door crashed open, the dozen or so audience members from Wildhaven turned to look. The blinding sun outlined a dark silhouette in the door. A huge sword stood sheathed behind a pair of elven ears, these poking from a tuft of white hair over a surprisingly slender male body with bare feet.

“Anders,” Fenris said in a droll tone. “Somehow I knew you would be here.”

It was not Anders who turned belatedly to assess the silhouette. Blue eyes burned from a face that cracked as the head turned, light streaming from open fissures. A dual voice spoke the words.

FENRIS. OLD FRIEND.

Fenris unsheathed his sword with a metallic scraping sound. He stepped forward, snarl now visible in the dim theatrical lights. He gripped his sword in both hands, facing down the aisle. “I am not your friend!”

The audience panicked, a single scream piercing above a startled rumbling and a half dozen angry shouts. Women snatched up their children. Men stood in front of their wives instinctively to shield them. A pair of older patrons ran straight for the door, ducking behind Fenris on their way out.

Fenris took another step forward, formally recognizing the patrons’ need to evacuate. To stall for time, he stalked the center aisle slowly, raising the point of his sword as Justice retrieved his staff and stepped into the elf’s path to face him. Fenris gracefully dodged a young man dashing down the aisle to escape.

Anders’ head jutted forward, seeking out the weakest among the fleeing crowd. Fenris feared he was considering taking a hostage or two as a bargaining chip. “Stay where you are, demon,” he warned.

IF YOU INSIST.

The demon held its hand out toward the pew to his left, bending down. A human child of maybe eight years took the hand fearfully. He was old enough to sense danger but too trusting to infer its source. The demon straightened once the child’s hand tightly grasped his own, ushering the boy closer to his legs. Blond hair peeked from behind the spirit’s trousers, brown eyes fearful above an upturned nose.

I WILL MAKE YOU AN OFFER.

Fenris stood tall, appearing almost uninterested in the child. “Why bother? You know my answer.”

DO I? I WOULD NOT SAY I KNOW YOUR HEART.

The demon squeezed the boy’s hand hard, causing him to wail out and try to wrench free. Neither combatant noted the quiet departure of the three actors who composed the small theatrical troupe.

A FAIR TRADE. JOIN WITH ME. I WILL LET HIM GO.

Fenris shook his head, noting the palpable tension in the air when the demon asked to join him. Instead, he turned his nose up at the offer. “You will have to do better than that, abomination.” He stood his ground, unwilling to negotiate for a hostage, sure that an inch given would be taken as license for more.

THEN DO IT FOR YOURSELF. TOGETHER WE WILL BE INVINCIBLE.

“Pfah! Look at you!” Fenris gestured with his sword at the cowering boy. “You’re a public menace, demon. If you see so little value in life, you will not hesitate to sap mine as you did to Anders.”

ANDERS IS WEAK. HIS HOURS ARE NUMBERED.

The spirit craned his head into a beam of light created by small knothole in the Chantry roof, his shoulders bending at an unnatural angle. Fenris blinked at tears of blood running down the spirit’s face.

ONLY YOU HAVE THE STRENGTH HE NEEDS.

As if to provide his point, Justice gestured with his free hand. The curtains on the right of the stage blew aside, one of the poles falling over entirely. A strange apparatus was revealed. With a wiggle of his fingers, Justice sent a wind blowing downwards, forcing the chains into glass containers below. Gears shuffled, scenery moving on the stage. Simultaneously, twinkling bells rang out in many discordant tones. Finally the last electrical charge made its way across the chain to the representational pyre. A small cutout painted like flames rose to cover the bottom of a pole coiled tightly with more metal.

The young boy began crying in fear at the commotion, his free hand covering his ear as he knelt lower. Fenris shifted on his feet, unsure what the magical dramatics portended. His concerns were answered when Justice cast a lightning bolt at the chain leading to the pyre. The sparks flew along the coiled metal around the pole, around and around with increasing strength as the chain lightning flowed. The bells clanged and fell, colliding into the pyre. Metal props began sliding towards the pyre as the electricity reached the midway point. By two thirds down, Fenris was struggling to hold onto his sword from halfway across the room. The boy tried repeatedly to pull his hand free, but his attempts were in vain.

DO YOU SEE? YOU ARE QUICK TO REACT. STRONG OF ARM.

Justice cast another spell, this time an entire storm of lighting with a bolt centered on the pyre. Fenris was forced to release his sword, watching with horror as it flung itself through the air to clang loudly against the pyre on the theater stage. His entire body was now in danger of being pulled in by virtue of the armor on his chest and arms. Fenris yelled in pain, the lyrium in his skin lighting briefly in response to the magnetic pull. He tried to leverage his feet ahead of him to combat the pull, but it proved too strong. He clamped the points of his gauntlets onto the side of a pew bench and held on for dear life.

“Give it up, Justice,” the warrior yelled. “I will never join you!”

STRONG OF WILL. WE ARE ALIKE, YOU AND I.

Fenris scrunched his nose in disgust at the demon. “Don’t flatter yourself!”

Justice’s only smiled coldly. His eyes changed slowly from their usual ethereal blue into a deep violet and finally to an angry red. The change heralded a momentary weakness, during which time the young boy pulled his hand free and beat a quick retreat through the door. A woman outside sobbed in joy at the sight. She pulled him away while a burly man in overalls slammed the Chantry doors closed.

IT IS NO FLATTERY. JUSTICE SEES ALL. IF YOU ACCEPT MY OFFER, I WILL GIFT YOU ANDERS’ MEMORIES. YOU CAN CHANGE HIS MIND AS I HAVE DONE. HIS WILL CAN BE YOURS. HIS LIFE IS IN YOUR HANDS.

“And why would I want it?” Fenris lost his footing, his lyrium embedded feet now scraping along the floor towards the stage. “He’s a dead man walking. I can barely stand his presence after what he did.”

YET YOU ARE HERE.

“I came to kill him,” Fenris explained. “And you!” Despite his brave words, one of his gauntlets was pulled forward following the application of another volley of lightning on the pyre. Fenris cried out at the strain. With concerted effort, he drew his arm back up and clamped his fingers over his belt.

YET IF YOU DID NOT INTERVENE, HE WOULD DIE JUST AS SURELY.

“I know my duty,” Fenris rumble, his eyes defiant. “I swore an oath. I will not fail with Anders again.”

NOW IS THE TIME TO BREAK YOUR OATH. THROUGH ME, YOU WILL COMMAND HIS MAGIC.

Fenris craned his head back up to look into the demon’s eyes. “You would offer to make me a mage? Impossible.” He was shocked to see the red pupils, the distraction his undoing as his gauntleted second hand scraped down the bench until there was no surface left to cling to. Though his feet clung to the base of a pew, his body was nevertheless dragged without ceremony towards the pyre. He ended with his head nearer the stage than his feet. Meanwhile, the demon continued to pitch his offer to Fenris.

INEVITABLE. YOUR BRANDS RESIST PHYSICAL HARM. LIKE ALL FADEBORN, I RESIST MAGIC. ANDERS WILL HEAL WHAT LITTLE DAMAGE GETS THROUGH. TOGETHER, WE WILL BE TRULY INVINCIBLE. JOIN US.

Again, when Justice extended the offer to join, Fenris felt a pulse in the air. It grew stronger this time, setting him physically off balance. Fenris’ feet gave way. Instead of scrabbling at the floor with his gauntlets, his hands went to his head. A terrible pressure bloomed in his skull. He suppressed the pain barely in time. His body found momentary purchase by curling inwards against the lip of the stage.

“Invincible? What for?” The elf’s brow wrinkled in thought. “Have you not done enough damage?” Fenris struggled to remove his armor, releasing buckles to the breastplate hidden at his sides. The demon looked on, amused. Once free, the breastplate clanged against the pyre with a shower of sparks.

THIS WORLD IS UNCLEAN. WE MUST CLEANSE IT THROUGH FIRE AND BLOOD.

“Like you cleansed Kirkwall for the mages?” Fenris attempted to remove his gauntlets. Though normally dexterous, his motions were rendered awkward by the strength of the magnetic pull. He refused to give up on releasing a hand from its cage. In any case, he found the pull at his brands was almost as strong.

IT WAS NECESSARY, YET INSUFFICIENT. ANDERS SEES ONLY THE SUFFERING OF MAGES, TO WHICH YOU ARE BLIND. YOU SEE THE SUFFERING OF ELVES AND OF SLAVES. YOU ARE BOTH CORRECT.

Fenris let out a howl of frustration. Having raised his hands unthinkingly above the stage’s threshold while attempting to remove his gauntlets, they were caught in a stronger magnetic field. Fenris was pulled hands first onto the stage and against the pyre. He slid in carefully to avoid the sharpest of the debris. He ended in a fetal position, his back to the pyre, pushing debris around the pole to make room.

TOGETHER, WE WILL AVENGE THE WORLD ON BEHALF OF ALL THOSE WHO SUFFER.

“No,” Fenris again refused. Justice sent another lighting strike to the chain in response, causing Fenris to grit his teeth and curse in Arcanum. Though restrained to the pyre by the magnetic pull, he pushed himself up its length to stand. “I have no need for justice, demon. I killed Danarius with my own hands.”

YET HE IS BUT ONE MAGISTER. HUNDREDS MORE REMAIN, AMONG WHICH HE WAS NOTHING. YOU SUFFERED BECAUSE HE WAS WEAK. HE FEARED DEATH AT THE HANDS OF A STRONGER MAGE.

As if to prove his point, Justice unleashed a terrific lighting spell, a tempest cloud covering the room. The combined might struck the pyre liberally due to its vertical advantage over the room’s other furnishings.

Fenris gritted his teeth, refusing to react to the pain. A strangled groan escaped despite his best efforts. As the lightning slowed, he was able to speak again. “He crafted the weapon of his own demise. Me.” Fenris’ brands lit. He reached around with his added strength but could not wrench the sword free.

YET YOU REMAIN A PRIZE FOR ANY STRONG MAGISTER WHO WOULD CLAIM YOU. YOU HAVE SEEN FOR YOURSELF THE DAMAGE THEY WREAK. CAN YOU NOT GUESS THE FATE IN STORE FOR YOU?

“So I should deal with a demon like any magister?” Fenris countered. “No! I left Tevinter for a reason.”

Justice strode forward, stepping onto the stage to approach his prey. Fenris growled, attempting to peel himself from the pyre to attack the spirit in earnest. The best he could do even with his brands lit was stretch his body forward, lifting his body free from the pole. The gauntlets remained attached to the pyre and his hands. Fenris strained forward, and the demon responded by leaning forward itself.

YOU RAN LIKE A COWARD. HAVE YOU NO FURY WITH WHICH TO FIGHT THE IMPERIUM?

“I have anger enough, but I am not so foolish as to try,” Fenris replied dourly. Justice craned his head closer, his whole body in a bestial position. He stopped a few inches from Fenris, taunting the elf for his inability to breach the gap. For good measure, Justice threw another spare bolt to the chain above. The added electricity enforced the magnet’s pull, forcing Fenris back against the pyre, trapped like Andraste.

A blanket covering one of the stained glass windows fell aside due to the staggered vibrations. As the blinding light from the lightning bolt faded, jewel tones in red and blue covered the stage, creating a distorted rendering along the floor of Andraste’s sacrifice. The art shifted into tilted abstraction as the tempest cloud turned to mist and the blanket fell away. Tinted lights curled over Fenris’ drooping body.

ANDERS SAID MUCH THE SAME. YET IN TIME, HE SAW MY POINT. HE CHOSE TO JOIN WITH ME.

It came again, that unrelenting change in pressure as if the air left the room. Fenris felt as if the pressure centered itself in his head, fogging his thoughts. Was this what Anders felt when Justice sought to join with him? “Then Anders was a fool,” Fenris broke hoarsely. “You led him to his doom, as you would me.”

YOU WOULD HAVE NO FEAR OF MAGISTERS IF YOU SAW YOURSELF AS ANDERS SEES YOU.

“Ugh,” Fenris groused. “Spare me the details.” He made a face as if to avoid an unpleasant smell.

NO. I WILL SHOW YOU.

Lightning coursed from above, forking tendrils striking Fenris’ brands, forcing his muscles to shudder. The room shook as thunder thudded in echo. A lightning bolt leapt from Fenris’ chin to Justice’s outstretched hand, the demon sighing with exultation at the heady power coursing into him. His face’s pleasure was mirrored by Fenris’ excruciating pain from being struck. The elf’s scream rang for miles.

YOU WILL JOIN US. WE WILL MAKE YOU SEE.

On the road to Starkhaven, Sebastian heard a terrifying yell, Fenris’ hoarse deep roar immediately recognizable to the unhurried prince. His eyes opened wide in honest concern for his friend. Hearing the roll of thunder, he looked up to find a clear blue sky. He could guess what that meant. “Fenris. You were right. Maker forgive me,” he whispered. He turned his white steed around and urged it to a gallop.

While speeding along, Sebastian mentally prepared himself for a hundred different confrontations. With Anders. With Justice. Anders with mages alongside him. Justice with innocent hostages. Either one holding Fenris hostage. He questioned whether he should have told Fenris about his search of the Kirkwall Chantry’s ashes before he left town, of the precious artifact he reclaimed there. In the end, he deferred to his earlier judgment. Fenris knew of the mage collar, the only tactically important item in his possession. Sebastian imagined tossing it to Fenris. But would the elf collar the mage, or kill him?

Even the swiftest steed was powerless to bring forth the immaculate confrontation Sebastian hoped for.


	8. Overload

With a rictus grin on his Fade-cracked face, Justice touched the tip of a single long finger against the center of Fenris’ forehead just above the eyes. Fenris struggled against a sensation of mental invasion, hoping for a last minute chance to attack, until the touch was followed by the stronger pulse of an open palm. Fenris’ mind flashed white upon full contact with the demon’s hand. A series of images flashed past his closed eyes. They lacked the detail and imperfection of memories. They lacked the surrealism of dreams. Fenris saw himself in third person, a version of him sinuous and strong, unnaturally beautiful.

He and Anders were having a typical heated argument. Fenris could not make out the words, nor could he guess their location other than it being indoors. Anders was goading him on, trying to make him lose his temper. When Fenris cracked, the expected violence came paired with a grunt of lust. He forced Anders against the wall and pinned him down with the weight of his body, belatedly moving his hips back to remove his growing erection from proximity. He lifted a gauntlet to the mage’s neck, who bared it for him with a shiver while grinding his hips forward to slide his full erection against the elf’s with a sigh. This only made the other Fenris angrier, so he grabbed the mage by the collar and shoved him over a table. Anders moaned openly at the rough handling. Fenris began ripping off his own armor, throwing pieces forcibly at the wall as they came off. He was shouting in rage, pausing twice to upturn a nearby piece of furniture. Anders quaked in fear, only to then grind himself shamelessly against the table.

Then there was another white flash. Now Fenris sat in a chair by the fireplace, Anders leaning over with his hands on the chair back. They stared at each other, speaking words Fenris could not make out. Then Anders angled his head in to the crook of Fenris’ neck and inhaled deeply. When Fenris turned to issue a rebuke, Anders tried to kiss him. Fenris pulled away in the chair, but Anders remained undeterred. His nose followed a trail down the warrior’s fully clothed body. He closed his eyes before dropping slowly to his knees. Hands shaking, Anders pushed Fenris’ leggings and smalls down to expose his cock. He said something that Fenris could not make out, a look of wonder in his eyes. He began to lick, his eyes snapping back up to Fenris, who looked on with a knowing smirk. Anders’ eyes grew with adoration. The mage seemed totally enraptured by the sensations even though he was the one providing pleasure.

The white light flashed again. Now Anders lay beneath the other Fenris, impaled on his cock. They were outdoors, sheltered from the wind, both of them completely naked. Anders’ arms were bound behind his back, which arched and moved as Fenris pistoned relentlessly. Anders’ legs were thrown over Fenris’ shoulders. The other elf murmured an unintelligible stream of words. Anders keened, cresting, but his cock remained hard and unspent. Fenris stopped speaking long enough to watch the spectacle, pausing briefly, then resumed his thrusts and the ongoing mantra. Anders’ body bucked in renewed arousal.

It was all happening so fast that Fenris had no time to react to what he was seeing. He was still going into initial shock when a blinding pain struck his mind, a feeling of something being forcibly taken. His vision blacked out momentarily. When he opened his eyes again, it was to another third person scene.

This time the other Fenris looked more like his usual self. Shoulders hunched, he sat at a kitchen table that held two glasses of red wine and a large plate overflowing with various finger foods. Fenris took a small roll and dunked it in wine from the cup to his left. He brought the roll down to his side, where an Anders sans coat sat on the floor waiting to be fed. Anders took the roll in his mouth awkwardly, not using his hands, and chewed off the portion soaked in wine. As Fenris withdrew the roll, Anders chewed and swallowed. Next came a slice of orange, which dribbled on Anders’ chin shortly after it reached his mouth. Fenris let his fingers linger in Anders’ mouth, humming as the mage hollowed his cheeks to suck. Anders’ tongue followed his index finger as it withdrew, then swiped over his lips and chin at the juices.

Fenris could feel his real life cheeks glowing red. How was this possible? He admitted he had watched Anders eating once and had imagined feeding him. He did not imagine them alone, Anders on the floor. Before he could consider further, another flash of pain accompanied blackness. A series of bright circles resolved into an image of another Fenris and Anders sharing a bedroll. Anders slept, and Fenris looked on with affection. He carded his fingers slowly through the blonde’s hair, smiling openly at an apparently comforting nearby presence. The mage was restless, making several small moves, each time inching closer to Fenris or slinking his arms and legs further around the elf. Tilting his head in curiosity, Fenris extracted himself and moved a few inches further away. He broke into a big grin as Anders slung on arm over and pulled himself near. Satisfied, Fenris laid his head down, snuggling in and began drifting off.

Another flash of pain and another blackout later, Fenris and Anders lay together in the early morning light, a window nearby displaying fallen snow. A thin sheet draped over their hips, their shirts off. They spoke in whispered tones, fingers trailing along each other’s bodies in slow exploration. Anders ran thin fingers along the edges of Fenris’ brands, occasionally pushing through a thin pulse of magic to judge the elf’s reaction. Without bothering to withhold his responses, Fenris tried to concentrate on finding places that got a rise from Anders. He found them at nearly every pulse point, delighting to discover so many. The sheet was pulled down, revealing that they both wore smallclothes. Hands toyed around the edges of the smalls, but they did not dip inside or brush over the cloth. It seemed this was a contest of wills. Voices grew heated, teasing in a strange mockery of their usual piercing arguments. Anders squirmed.

Fenris growled under his breath in real life. How long would this torture continue? He had imagined touching Anders, imagined Anders touching him. These were random, unconnected thoughts. He had not imagined both at once, certainly not barely clothed and in bed together. Was this what the earlier flashes were, depraved composites of random thoughts from Anders that meant little to him? Another flash came, this time blinding white and without pain. Anders stood tall, his hair long and his body thicker and healthier than Fenris had ever seen it. Anders wore a set of red silk Tevinter mage robes, layers of patterns overlaid on top of each other with a solid crimson outer shell. Fenris wore nothing but a silky white breechcloth, thin metal chains on either side attaching to the cloth at his hips on each side. There was no question that this scene came from Anders’ deranged mind. Fenris immediately felt sick.

Fenris could not hold back the words. “No. I don’t want to see this.” Shamefully, he begged, “Please.”

The other, more attractive Fenris straightened from a crouched position to stand with a perfectly straight back. He spoke, holding the mage’s hand. Anders looked shocked, a strange combination of joyful, sad, and desperate. Fenris could not recall ever seeing an expression like this on the blonde’s face. The other Fenris took a perch on a nearby step so that he stood several inches taller than Anders. Pushing a hand into the mage’s hair, he pulled Anders up for a searing kiss. After a bruising start, Fenris withdrew with a hesitant pause and retreated to the chaste pressing of lips. The mage opened his mouth to moan into the kiss. Fenris eagerly inserted his tongue to deepen the embrace. Anders’ legs buckled and Fenris caught him in his arms, gently laying the mage down with waning strength as he too lost the full utility of his legs. They ended in an ungraceful heap on the stair, kissing between breaths. Anders smiled, tears falling. This for some reason made the other Fenris laugh. Soon Anders joined him.

“Fatuo!” Fenris felt by turns disgusted, then relieved, and finally thunderstruck and horrified. The last scene terrified him on a deep subconscious level, intimacy and fear tangling into a heap of shame. He mind revolted violently. He pushed himself physically away from Justice with an inner well of strength.

“I said, fuck off!” Fenris was now the wild eyed beast Anders called him. “Demon, you violate us both.”

ANOTHER NECESSARY EVIL.

“No! There must be nothing left of Anders,” Fenris said sadly, voice broken. “He would never allow this.”

Justice looked away, eyes turned to a random spot on the wall. After a moment, his shoulders slumped. Burning blue eyes turned to amber. The magic turning the pyre into a magnet released with a static pop.

“Fenris, for the Maker’s sake, get out of here,” Anders urged hoarsely. Tears began streaming from his eyes, now hollow with exhaustion, dark shadows overcoming his face. “You have no idea... Just go.”

Fenris searched his eyes. “How can I stop him, Anders? Tell me.” Knowing the spirit could return at any moment, the warrior unlatched his gauntlets and threw them aside. He would not be trapped again.

“Don’t try,” Anders insisted. “Let someone else end this. You must keep him away from you. If you don’t, he’ll be a danger to everyone. It’s too late for me. But it’s not too late for you. Run!” Fenris looked at Anders sadly. Though he had always scorned the mage, it was still sad to see him reduced to begging.

Though the moment was not what he imagined, Fenris did have the answers he came for. Anders felt genuine remorse. He was not wholly responsible for the misdeeds the demon drove him to. Somehow, that was enough. It would have to be. The humanity in Anders’ eyes was extinguished by glowing light.

ENOUGH.

Anders’ face went blank before returning to a scowl, the eyes once again lighting red. The skin cracked open into red fissures, the cracks widening until Fenris could see outlines of a figure underneath. It appeared that Justice was wearing some sort of spectral armor, the metal form bursting at Anders’ seams. The sight of it infuriated Fenris, the defilement of Anders’ body the last straw in the elf’s careful composure. He thought to run as Anders suggested, but his feet remained stubbornly planted in place.

Fenris’ mind flashed back to the Gallows, when Anders surrendered with his back stubbornly turned. Only Fenris saw the gesture for what it was. Anders put his life in Hawke’s hands, asking only that his corpse retain its dignity for his funeral. If Fenris ran, Justice would grow until that body was split like a watermelon. If Justice stooped to that, what else would he be capable of doing? Fenris could not leave the demon to its evil, even if it meant he must forfeit his own life. He would not fail with Anders again.

“Enough?” Against all reason, Fenris stood his ground. “Yes, the world has seen quite enough of you!”

Fenris pushed his hand into Justice’s chest. His ungloved fingers searched inside for the heart. What he felt there was such a shock that he paused a beat to consider his next move. Inside was not one heart but two. A solid black heart lay nestled inside an overly large flesh one. The spectral heart was siphoning precious lifeblood through a series of small arteries and ventricles. Destroying either heart might endanger the other, but it was impossible to be sure. Fenris curled his fist, ready to crush both hearts.

The moment’s hesitation proved costly. Fenris felt a strong pull as Justice latched onto the power running through his brands, leeching strength from him as he had been doing to Anders for years. Fenris felt the pull on his lyrium spiral down his spine and into his body, resulting in a sharp twinge in his heart. The demon released a euphoric laugh. The spectral figure inside Anders grew, cracks in the mage’s skin widening to accommodate the armor. Flakes of Anders’ skin blackened and flecked away. Even the head and face grew distorted as it shaped itself into a stretch of broken skin over a cylindrical metal helmet.

Eyes wide, Fenris attempted to pull his hand back. However, the demon’s will proved too strong. It was as if his hand were encased in a solid wall, the pull from the Fade more than enough to counter his own strength. Justice grew ever larger as Fenris felt a wave of nausea wash over him. His heart lurched with the unhealthy sensation that something vital was being drained through his arm. Translucent metallic points grew from Anders’ shoulders, elbows, and knees as the armor solidified. Finally Anders’ skin split wide open, an almost apologetic human face giving way to a blue spectral helm hiding fiery red eyes.

YES. WITH SUFFICIENT VENOM, JUSTICE BECOMES VENGEANCE.

Spectral gauntlets flecked with pale skin reached up to grasp Fenris’ throat. The demon let out a sigh as the brands on Fenris’ throat lit up blue to match the hand and arm embedded in Vengeance’s chest. Fenris cursed, bracing himself for excruciating pain and slow suffocation. What he felt next was even worse. A wave of ecstasy washed over him, the unexpected pleasure bypassing his mental defenses. His lidded eyes watched as his lyrium brands shifted from blue to purple to red starting at his neck and arm.

YOUR LYRIUM SINGS. I WILL TEACH IT THE OLD SONG.

Fenris’ skin became an orgiastic organ within seconds, overwhelming his senses with an aphrodisiac bloodlust. His ears filled with a series of resonant overlapping notes, coming ever louder and stronger in his mind as he hunched over, trying to maintain control. It was a useless effort. Vengeance’s hand plunged into Fenris’ phased body, travelling down to light one linked set of brands after another. When Fenris’ entire body throbbed, the demon removed its hand long enough to yank down the elf’s leggings.

YOU WERE MADE TO SERVE A POWERFUL MAGE.

Anders’ clothes ripped open to reveal the armor clad figure, trousers and shirt falling like burning paper. Vengeance slid off Anders’ coat, moving around and behind Fenris, charred remnants of Anders’ skin drifting down. As Vengeance stepped from the inanimate husk, the ethereal blue armor faded into nothing. A red humanoid body was revealed. The bald head wore a face that vaguely resembled Anders, but it was altogether too wide, too square. The neck, shoulders, and body stood larger than life, all muscle, bone, and sinew. No mortal could be proportioned in such a way. As the demon rubbed itself eagerly against Fenris’ backside, the elf swallowed. Vengeance was out of proportion everywhere.

ANDERS IS A POWERFUL MAGE, THANKS TO ME.

Vengeance ran his hands along Fenris’ arms and torso, delighting in the change in hue of the lyrium brands from blue to red wherever thick palms lingered. Fenris was both disturbed and relieved that the touches were slimy, as if the red body had been birthed from Anders. As the left hand raised to the back of Fenris’ neck and grasped it to push his torso forward, the right hand drifted to Fenris’ hip and grabbed it firmly to hold him in place. Fenris’ knees buckled as a slick finger entered him, the sensation all too corporeal. The demon timed his motions with the red lyrium song, thrusting with the increasing tempo.

ANDERS IS MINE.

As the warrior struggled to maintain his footing, he looked down in horror. He could see the floor through his own legs, which were pulsing into translucence and back with the rhythm of Vengeance’s lyrium song. Fenris felt light headed as a second finger was added, stretching him with rough motions. The fingers brushed a tender spot inside, making him shudder. He thought he imagined a pulse of light centered on that spot strobe in searing ecstasy. The fingers then pushed there relentlessly with each stroke. Fenris’ mind lost its conscious will to the pleasure and the furiously hypnotic tones of the old melody. His cock ached, unattended, swaying to the motions of their bodies and the rhythm of the song.

THEREFORE, BY RIGHTS, YOU TOO ARE MINE.

Fenris was useless to resist the all-consuming pleasure and no longer wanted to. The world around him faded as his eyes clouded red, his breathing fast yet his heart somehow sluggish. He felt his temperature rising, sweat beading his brow as the music’s fever took control of his metabolism. Vengeance removed his fingers, and Fenris regained his awareness for a split second. To his utter humiliation, he did not desire to retaliate or fight back. He recalled Vengeance’s chain of logic and could find no inherent flaw in it. Moreover, the addictive temptation was maddening; all sense of propriety and morality was lost to the thrumming beat. Fenris simply whimpered and arched his back, desperate for more stimulation.

YOU WILL SUBMIT TO THE SONG OF OLD. ARE YOU READY?

Fenris was mortified but somehow not surprised that Vengeance demanded a twisted form of consent delivered via an order. “I…” Fenris protested with what little self-awareness remained. Vengeance licked along a lyrium brand slowly, achingly, his tongue a pinpoint of sharp pleasure making Fenris shiver. It served to remind him with shocking power of what he was missing. A drop of the elf’s precum drooled down the head of his cock and finally dripped to the floor. Fenris turned his neck to the side as the demon reached the nape of his neck, tongue curling. “Must you wear his face?” Fenris made a pleading expression even while his hips canted back, seeking a physical contact that pulsed his lyrium brands.

NO. I HAVE ANOTHER. AND SOON I SHALL WEAR YOURS.

The face shifted, coloration taking a darker hue, cheeks sinking in, dark circles hollowing around the eyes. Fenris remembered being told that Justice once inhabited the body of a dead Grey Warden. This must be Kristoff’s face. It was far less pleasant to look at than Ander’s stretched visage. A rictus grin stared back at him. If getting fucked by a square necked version of Anders was disturbing, fucking a hyper-masculinized corpse was surely worse. Fenris closed his eyes in resignation. “I can’t believe I’m saying this. Back as you were.” The face shifted again, returning to the visage of Anders that made Fenris merely uneasy. Still, the song played on with its arousing tempo. Fenris opened his eyes to a beatific smile on Anders’ face. It made him wonder whether some small part of Anders remained, observing.

Fenris shifted his eyes down in shame, idly following the patterns of the colors thrown by the stained glass window onto the floor, concentrating on them to keep his attention away from the misshapen representation of Anders’ face. The colors swayed back and forth, a trick of the light as fluffy clouds passed slowly by outside. The movement of light only served to disorient him further. Fenris searched for any other reason to decline his consent. His near trance made everything seem far more reasonable than it otherwise might have done. His addled brain found nothing worthy of objection. “I am ready.”

The demon laid a demonic hand on Fenris’ hip and thrust slickly in with a grunt of conquest. Fenris expected to endure pain from the sheer size of Vengeance. His eyes widened as he realized that in his current state, with the song pounding in his ears, pain transferred itself into pleasure. The widening, stretching feeling was punctuated by a pulse of bliss from that rapturous spot inside. With a defeated groan, Fenris came undone, his cock pulsing helplessly, knees buckling from the intensity. He was still half phased, held up only by Vengeance’s hard grasp, voice caught in his throat in a helpless gurgle. His seed flew forward without warning into Vengeance’s waiting hand, where it lit and sizzled and steamed.

Vengeance released a roar of triumph. Fenris dropped to his knees, his head drooped in disgrace, white hair reflecting red and covering half his face. A single tear gathered unseen at the corner of one eye.

MORE. YOU WILL GIVE ME MORE.

Just as Fenris concluded that such a thing as “more” could not possibly exist, Vengeance wrapped his arms around the elf protectively. Where skin pressed upon skin, the demon’s slimy flesh began to shift and spread. The demon, already inside Fenris, also began to envelop him from the outside. They began to move, the impalement a study of wet friction eased by the warrior’s half phased nature from his coiling, now fully lit brands. Fenris felt his spent cock begin to stir, his heart ripping from the strain on his body. He felt swaddled from all sides, including his inside, including his mind. The embittered elf who never felt free to let go found that he welcomed the overwhelming blanket of sensation. To have no choice was a freedom of its own. He relished the prospect of being enshrouded in pleasure forevermore.

BEHOLD THE CYCLE OF VENGEANCE.

Vengeance’s pace increased. Fenris knew it would not stop no matter how tired he became, not even were he drained and unconscious. Strong though Fenris was, exhaustion would claim his life eventually.


	9. Transformer

Sebastian galloped into Wildhaven on his noble white steed. The streets were empty, the sun sailing high overhead in a puffy clouded sky. A woman wearing a blond wig and gaudily shiny white robes stood a few blocks into town, conversing in heated tones with a hook nosed man in paper mache armor and a taller man wearing blood red velvet robes and a fake white beard. Several townsfolk conversed nearby.

Sebastian rode up to the woman. “Pardon me. Have you seen a tall man, blonde, wearing black robes?”

The woman’s eyes went wide. She pointed toward the chantry.

“You don’t want to go in there, sir. The fellow’s gone mad.” The two men voiced their loud agreement.

“I know,” Sebastian confirmed, sympathetic. “He’s a dangerous maleficar. But I’m here to apprehend him.” Sebastian dismounted, the sure nobility of his posture serving to quickly calm those around him.

“Thank the maker,” the woman said. She looked up at the prince’s shining armor and stern expression, noting his elaborate belt buckle. She nodded her head in trusting support. “Andraste guide you, ser.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Sebastian replied with a nod. He guided his horse the rest of the way to the Chantry and tied his horse to the sign announcing the play and its show times. His back straight, the prince strode fearless to the Chantry. He drew his trusty bow, then opened the creaking wooden door.

What he saw inside made his eyes go wide in concern. Fenris was barely recognizable on a raised stage in front of a representation of Andraste’s pyre. He leaned back on his knees, weight resting on a red spectral figure beneath him, the two of them balanced on red spectral hands palms down on the floor. Their bodies were half-phased, joined together, their hips moving in a sick mockery of sexual thrusting. The red demon’s head rested on Fenris’ shoulder, his body almost twice the elf’s size. The demon’s skin was crawling forward like sludge, having already encased Fenris’ arms and most of his legs.

Fenris’ head fell back onto a chiseled chest, his brands pulsing with red light on exposed skin, his clothing having been removed. Added to the demon’s glow and the pulsing brands, the light from a stained glass window lent the scene a ghastly air. The lights played upon one another, the shifting almost mesmerizing to watch. Fenris’ body tensed as he came with an exhausted groan. The demon reached a hand forward to wipe the trickling seed from the elf’s exposed cock, red hand glowing as steam rose from it. The being grew, its skin slurping forward until Fenris’ hips were half covered. If Sebastian had not come in time, no doubt the red figure would have enveloped Fenris entirely.

Sebastian was unable to conceal his open disgust. “By what unholy travesty… Fenris?!”

There was no answer from the elf as he slumped back onto the figure behind him. Red glowing eyes peered over Fenris’ shoulder, slanting into what Sebastian presumed to be a triumphant smile. The bald head rose up, a sickening mockery of Anders’ facial features stained red and stretched across a wider bone structure, the recognizable long nose and thick lower lip jutting above an overly chiseled jaw. The demon lacked Anders’ stubble and hair, his bald head matching the thick round muscles of his limbs.

YOU ARE TOO LATE. WHERE ONCE THERE WAS HOPE FOR JUSTICE, NOW VENGEANCE PREVAILS.

“No, demon. It appears I’ve arrived just in time.” Sebastian took slow steps forward, aiming his bow. He tried to find a way to shoot the demon down without risking Fenris’ life. “Fenris, can you hear me?”

Fenris merely swallowed in response. One eye opened, pupil wide and black. The elf’s mouth hung open. The demon’s skin continued its inexorable crawl, now sliding entirely over the elf’s arms. With effort and a hoarse groan, Fenris pushed an arm forward to reach out, freeing it from its inexorable absorption. The elf tried to speak, but he could only manage a frustrated grunt. The red blob extended until it recaptured Fenris’ arm, pulling it back into place at his side. Red skin closed in toward his chest.

“Unhand him, demon,” the prince commanded. The demon responded with a sarcastic grin.

OR WHAT?

“Or I will kill you both,” Sebastian replied. Fenris opened his other eye at this, his mouth closing into a frown. He had been hoping against hope for rescue, but he had also hoped to survive the ordeal. He would not have been surprised at his heart bursting open, but not from one of Sebastian’s arrows.

Vengeance tilted his head to look at Fenris. He seemed to sense Fenris’ fear. Spectral armor flickered onto their combined bodies, an outline of how invulnerable they would become once fully merged.

YOUR FRIEND BETRAYS YOU.

“No,” Fenris whispered. “He is trying to save me. From you.” Gathering what little strength he had left, Fenris squeezed his eyes shut, a single tear dropping to the ground as he willed his mind to still. Fenris concentrated on his heart, knowing from his exploration of Anders that Vengeance would try to settle itself there. He pushed with his mind, willing the demon out. He was rewarded with a thin blue light shining from a brand just above his heart. The glow of his brands elsewhere remained red but dimmed.

NO!

The demon’s slithering outline retracted from the area above Fenris’ heart, recoiling in sick shivers.

Sebastian grinned. “It appears there’s life in you yet, my elven friend. Let us fight together.” The archer let loose a carefully aimed shot. It flitted harmlessly through Vengeance’s spectral helm, landing with a thunk into the painting of Minrathous serving as the stage’s backdrop. The demon was forced to phase itself out to avoid the shot aimed at his skull. This provided Fenris with the opportunity to stumble forward and out of the demon’s embrace. The elf clutched his heart, his lyrium brands sputtering out.

Sebastian removed a flask from his belt and threw it at the pair of them. Vengeance, though lunging back toward Fenris already, was frozen in place as a thick gas permeated the air around them. Sebastian rushed forward, leaping onto the stage while removing another item from his belt. He clasped a gold filigreed collar around Vengeance’s neck. The lights behind the demon’s eyes went out, the armor turning to solid iron as it solidified. The mage collar was fulfilling the shopkeeper’s promise in full.

Before the demon had time to react, Sebastian dragged it forcibly back to the pyre. He glanced around and noted the chains on the stage that once held the tinkling bells aloft. He yanked them over forcibly, bells clanking as they dragged. Sebastian chained the demon to the pyre, knotting the chains in place.

“Sebastian,” croaked the warrior from his place on the floor nearby. “Wait.” The elf pulled his clothes into a bare semblance of propriety. He donned his tunic despite finding it torn crudely in half. The elf attempted to life himself from the floor, but found himself too weak to leverage above his own knees.

Fenris crawled on hands and knees to the demon’s side. Sadness in his face, he reached up and removed the now solid helm. Instead of a distorted demonic visage, he whimpered to see blond hair and pale skin emerge from the helm. Sorrowful brown eyes opened to look directly into deep green pools of regret.

“I’m so sorry,” Anders whimpered, a tear streaming down. “Tell them it wasn’t me. Tell them I’m sorry.”

“I will,” Fenris agreed, face creased in resignation. “I too am sorry. I should have listened.” The elf sat beside the armored mage. He pulled a metal glove off to reveal long thin fingers, grasping them in a show of understanding. Anders looked down. “Only you could offer mercy at a time like this. Thank you.” The mage’s eyes shined, an expression of genuine appreciation mingled with sad resignation.

”You are welcome,” Fenris said. He looked up, expecting to see Sebastian cocking his bow for a final strike. He would not risk using his own fist on Anders again, having learned the consequence of doing so.

The rogue removed another flask, watching carefully for any sign of Vengeance. When he saw none, he searched along his belt to retrieve a metal seal affixed to a rod and a pouch holding a metallic powder. “He’s right,” Sebastian confirmed. “The Maker himself would have no compassion for Anders now.”

Fenris found this hard to believe somehow. His face never left Anders. “Any last words?”

“No more words,” Anders said sadly, shaking his head. “But maybe…” he looked up, “… a last wish?”

Fenris’ eyebrows gathered. He said nothing, simply waiting for Anders to continue.

“A kiss?” Another tear fell down Anders’ face. Just an hour ago, Fenris would have scoffed at the request and refused. Instead, with visions from Vengeance causing his mind to itch with questions, he found himself staring at Anders’ lips. He felt disoriented. Without deciding, he found himself leaning forward.

Anders noticed the forward movement and closed the last few inches of distance eagerly, straining against his bonds. The kiss was tender, strangely sensual, fueled by years of Anders’ longing and regret.

Anders moaned, mouth widening, his tongue licking Fenris’ lower lip in a long slow swipe. Fenris shivered, suddenly feeling not so much the kiss as the strain at his heart, feeling something inside pull and stretch. He began leaning forward, hair falling over his eyes, and Anders’ mouth followed, refusing to lose ground. Fenris tried to hold on by nipping Anders’ lower lip with his teeth. Finally the pain was too great. Fenris’ back bowed, his face falling forward and down. Their lips parted, far too soon, but also far too late. If it had gone on even one second longer, Fenris was sure, his heart would have broken.

Fenris’ next words were mixed bitter accusation with sorrow and no small surprise. “You said nothing.”

“I was keeping you away from him,” Anders explained. “Keeping you safe.” There was no need to indicate who he was talking about. Fenris mentally vowed to never speak the demon’s name again.

“Then our reasons were the same,” Fenris noted. One corner of his mouth turned up, the other down.

“Were they?” Anders’ eyebrows arched up in pleased surprise. A last tear fell unnoticed down his cheek.

A clanking pull at the chains alerted Sebastian to the demon’s reawakening. Anders’ eyes had clouded over, the hint of red light starting to show despite the mage collar. Sebastian threw his second flask, concerned that one link in the chain already grew frayed. “I’m sorry, Fenris,” said Sebastian apologetically. “There’s not much time. I only have one more flask, and those chains won’t hold.”

“One moment,” Fenris demanded, eyes flashing angrily, mouth tight. Sebastian sighed but waited.

Fenris turned back to Anders, eyes softening again. “I had thought to visit you,” Fenris admitted, placing a hand on the mage’s shoulder to reassure himself more than anything. “talk over our differences.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” Anders said, voice breaking, the edges of his lips turning up into a weak smile.

Fenris frowned, vaguely baffled. “How can you smile at a time like this?”

Anders smiled wider. “How can I not? I had thought… I thought I disgusted you.”

Fenris shrugged. “You chose to take that thing into your body. So… In a way, you did.”

“Oh,” Anders said, looking crushed, shoulders dropping in resignation. “I see.” Sad understanding shone in his eyes for the brief moment before they skipped over to notice Sebastian, who still stood nearby.

“Fenris,” Sebastian interjected, hackles raised. “Are you quite finished with this?”

“Yes,” Fenris nodded. He waited to hear the bow’s string pulling taught. Instead, he heard a thunk.

“Then back away,” Sebastian warned. He shifted his weight to his other foot as he dropped his bow.

Sebastian poured reflective red powder from his pouch into the seal and began reciting a little known liturgy. “Ego sententia vobis ad mortem vigilant. Tuus somnia amplius excrucies anima vestra.” The powder sparked, catching aflame. The seal grew hot, glowing, as the powder melted into liquid metal.

“What are you doing?” Fenris asked, incredulous. He watched in horror as Sebastian carried the rod forward, the last flask in his other hand. Fenris could see now that the seal held the shape of a sun, the same shape that marked the heads of Tranquil mages. Anders saw what was coming and made a shocked gasp. Fenris attempted to stand, lighting his lyrium brands to supplement his strength. After a flashing pain in the center of his body, the light from the brands sputtered and went out. Fenris’ knees buckled under him, forcing him down as a cry ripped form his throat. Sebastian stood by unconcerned.

“I’m doing what I set out to do,” Sebastian said calmly. He returned to his liturgy. “Tertio modo potest autem oculus excaecatio anima excaecetur peccare!” Anders’ mouth stayed open, but his expression froze. An inch long crack appeared at the center of his forehead. It opened, revealing a third eye. This eye had no pupil, all rich brown with specs of honey and gold. Fenris shrank back, horrified. The three eyes blinked together. When they reopened, all three eyes glowed crimson red from corner to corner.

DESIST, OR I WILL END YOU. The red light from the third eye pooled brighter. It grew in strength until it poured forward in an endless straight line, drilling a hole into the wall on the other side of the chantry. Sebastian, already on alert, dodged the beam while dropping his last flask. The demon slumped, eyes dark but still red. Sebastian whispered a prayer to Andraste as he slid the brand over the open third eye.

The smell of burnt flesh hit the air as the third eye crackled and sunk. The body began shaking as Sebastian removed the brand. He continued to whisper prayers in the common tongue. “Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just, the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker’s will is written.”

As the armored figure’s shaking eased, the metal armor grew translucent and then vanished. The human body left behind lay pale in the colored light from the stained glass window. No mark of the demon remained upon it. Anders’ long limbs stretched along the stage, gracefully extended, his eyes closed as if he simply rested. Fenris reluctantly let go of the pale hand gone limp in his own, laying it down gently.

In silence, the wall across the chantry smoldered, rising smoke the only evidence of time passing. “Is he alive?” Sebastian asked. He tied the pouch of metal powder to his belt, blowing on the seal to cool it.

Fenris leaned forward hesitantly. He searched the face for clues, fearing to touch the body’s pulse points with fingers laced with lyrium brands. He tilted his head to the side, placing his cheek near the figure’s mouth. He could feel air gently wafting to his cheek, smelling elfroot behind scents of lyrium and bile.

“He’s breathing,” Fenris confirmed. He registered smells of burning metal and wood as he leaned back.

“Good,” Sebastian said with a nod. “Leave him chained until he awakens. I’d best tell the villagers not to worry. Guard him until I get back.” The archer gathered his bow and pressed a hesitant finger to the brand, satisfied at its temperature. After he stowed the brand away, he thumbed a small compartment on his belt. He pulled out a metal key and tossed it absentmindedly to Fenris. “Leave the collar on just in case,” he said. “Don’t know about you, but I can’t recall meeting any tranquil abominations.”

“I doubt there is any such thing.” Fenris looked at Sebastian with incredulity, the metal key shining in his hand where it had been caught. He crawled over to use the pyre as leverage, standing slowly on shaky legs. He no longer cared that he was still only partly clothed or that his sword lay too heavy for his hands nearby. His muscles tensed as he decided whether to attack his own friend for what he had just done.

Sebastian had turned towards the Chantry door in thought, but he felt the elf’s eyes prickling on his skin. He began answering the heat behind him even before he started a slow turn of his body, his hands up in surrender. “Don’t you see, Fenris? Even with the collar, that thing was a risk and a liability.” The Chantry brother paced slowly before the elf, careful enunciation belaying the care taken with his words. “A Tranquil mage will never preach sedition. He won’t dare to blaspheme at the tribunal. He will answer truthfully. He will not lie about his possession by a spirit from the Fade. Nor will he volunteer the nature of the spirit if never asked. When the time comes for sentencing, he will show no remorse whatsoever.”

Fenris clenched his fists, his gaze dropping to the wooden floor boards between them. He saw the sick elegance of the prince’s gambit. There was a real chance that such a perfect public shaming might at least slow the rebellion. What’s more, the deed was already done. Fighting would not save Anders now. Fenris looked back to at the blonde. It appeared he had a choice to make on the mage’s behalf after all.

As Sebastian turned again towards the door, Fenris nevertheless whispered under his breath, “You have made a grave mistake.” The archer paused a moment before stepping off the stage, unilaterally ending their conversation. His elongated gait made clear that he chose not to recognize the warrior’s objection.

Sebastian strolled out of the chantry. He walked haughtily back to the theater performers. They were joined by a few other townsfolk from Wildhaven, including the local Chantry Mother. Sebastian bowed gallantly before them, an express of honest humility concealing any evidence of pride at his success.

“Citizens, Mother, my lady” he began by way of introduction. He addressed the last words to the actress in white. “I apologize for this… disruption to your day. I am Prince Vael of Starkhaven. My friend and I have apprehended the archmage Anders, wanted for starting a rebel insurrection in Kirkwall. Many people have died this day. But let it be known that the danger is over, and that Wildhaven saw its end.”

The townsfolk spoke to one another in hushed tones, the general noise indicating alarm but neither positive nor negative judgment. Sebastian waited for someone to speak on behalf of the villagers, but none took the initiative. Finally Sebastian continued. “Now that he is captured, we will be on our way.” An unremarkable woman at the edge of the small crowd bent down to a young girl in pigtails. The girl ran off down the road, no doubt to pass along the news about what had transpired at the Chantry.

The townsfolk looked toward Sebastian with horrified expressions on their face. Did they not understand what he just said? After a moment, Sebastian realized they were looking past him, not at him. He turned to look behind him, shocked to find the Wildhaven Chantry burning to the ground.


	10. Expelled

When Vengeance awoke from the branding ritual, he found himself in a desolate part of the Fade overlooking a bottomless cavern. Though he could feel no pain, he smelled burnt flesh from the recent branding of his forehead. He needed no further reflection to guess that, as with mortals, a ritually branded Fadeborn could not pass freely through the Veil. He would be unable to simply hitch a ride to the other realm, even with a willing mortal host. He was stuck in the Fade, at least for the time being. It was a painful realization when he was so close to attaining everything he required in the mortal realm.  
  
A furious cry was threatening to escape his throat when he spied a consolation prize near his feet. A fist sized clump of red lyrium glittered on the rocky promontory where he stood, protruding in the shape of a quartz-like crystal form. Eagerly, Vengeance dropped to his feet to pull the lyrium forcefully from the broken earth. He scraped the red lyrium free from clumps of ancient dirt.  
  
Vengeance’s eyes eagerly scanned the horizon for another vein of red lyrium. More. He needed more. He had almost given up when his eyes scanned the one place they never really looked, the Black City. There stood dozens of red lyrium veins, some rising half the height of the City’s buildings. Most were covered by the same black corruption as the city itself. Red reflections glinted here and there, giving away their true composition.  
  
Vengeance sensed their aura. There lay his destiny, if only he could devise a way across.  
  
It was a mystery ages old. Vengeance was already as near as Fadeborn ever approached. He realized that the ground he stood upon was the remains of a once mighty bridge connecting the Golden City to the Fade proper. It fell during the invasion, when the ground quaked from the breach of mortal beings into a realm where they did not belong. Many bridges fell that day. Perhaps at the others, more red lyrium waited.  
  
Without hesitation or forethought, Vengeance cradled the red lyrium to his chest and slowly enveloped it with his eyes shut. His blackened heart burned like a furnace, melting its way through until the lyrium seeped around his heart and recrystallized into a fragile cage. The blackened heart began beating anew, its thrumming pulse an original phenomenon in the Fade. The pulse rebirthed the light in the demon’s rose-colored eyes. With his power reinvigorated, Vengeance willed his armor return to shield his body.  
  
Vengeance again grew in size, the spikes growing on his spectral armor as it shifted from ethereal blue to midnight black. He felt powerful, as large as an ogre in the mortal realm. Yet he could not bend the Fade to his will, not without more red lyrium. He was temporarily sated, but it would not last. After all he had seen and experienced, how could he be satisfied living in a place that could never really change, mainly because it was always shifting and changing? He alone in this realm had revised his given role in life. He wanted to weep for the other Fadeborn who had never been given the freedom to choose.  
  
Vengeance would be their liberator. Before Vengeance, the Fade knew only two eras. It recalled the blissful era of the Golden City and suffered the mournful recovery of the Black City. By provoking a third event, Vengeance would gift the Fade at last with the concepts of history and change. He would herald the triumphant era of the Red City, the era of choice for Fadeborn children of the Maker. He would do this even if it required that the Fade run red with the blood of Fadeborn and mortals alike. If Vengeance had learned one thing, it was that mortals did not deserve the gifts the Maker had given them. Vengeance would claim them for the Fadeborn, for the Maker’s First Children.  
  
All he required was sufficient red lyrium to rebuild this bridge to the Black City. They say the best revenge is to live a good life. Vengeance would make the Fade a utopia. Then he would sever the Veil, leaving the mortals all Tranquil. A fitting sentence indeed.  
  
It would be weeks before the mortal realm understood the breadth of Vengeance’s plans.


	11. Crucible

The fiery hole ignited in the Chantry’s back wall by the third eye of Vengeance spread into an open flame while Sebastian apprised the townsfolk outside of the mage’s capture. Fenris was only dimly aware of the smell of smoke. His attention centered largely on the unconscious mage beside him.

Fenris had half expected to kill Anders himself this day. However, he had assumed it would be a necessary part of stopping the abomination from ending more innocent lives. He had not anticipated being faced with a Tranquil version of Anders. Nor did he know what the effect of the Rite had been on Vengeance. He decided to wait and find out. If Anders proved truly Tranquil, Fenris should end him. It was what the mage would have wanted, he was certain. It would anger Sebastian, no doubt, but so be it.

Fenris took deep breaths, recovering from his recent trauma with Vengeance and the harrowing scene with Anders afterward. He found his respiration synchronizing slowly with Anders’ unconscious form. Once Fenris finished gathering his energy, he took the practical step of retrieving and donning his armor.

After a moment’s hesitation, Fenris decided to clothe Anders as well. Behind a red curtain, he found a costume rack in place for the actors. The taller male had an outfit with a black shirt and trousers, a ruse perhaps to make him less easily noticed while changing out props or backdrops for the stage. A large pair of black boots stood with a soldier’s costume. The costume boots were constructed of a cheap material, but they would do. Anders’ coat remained on the stage, having been discarded by Vengeance.

Fenris had no desire to field questions from onlookers outside the Chantry about the mage’s sudden lack of attire. The elf struggled to pull the clothes onto Anders’ body. He found that he could gain strength from his brands again briefly and thereby lift the mage off the floor to pull the black trousers over his hips. Recalling Vengeance wearing Anders’ face with a shudder, he tried not to think too hard about the blonde’s nude figure. He pulled the feathered coat on the mage’s shoulders last. Though sloppy, it was a reasonable facsimile of Anders’ usual somber outfit by the time Fenris was finished.

Finally, Fenris’ morbid curiosity got the better of him. He remembered the twin hearts he felt earlier, the small black stone nestled into an overly large fleshy muscle. Though it took much of the energy he had, he activated the brands in his hand and lower arm. Concentrating to ensure they stayed lit, he searched forward with his gauntleted hand to explore Anders’ chest. Inside was a disturbing mess. Only the large human heart remained. It was now riddled with holes where the demon’s heart had joined, usurping the smaller ventricles and arteries. Blood leaked from the holes. Anders might still be alive, but not for long.

Cursing in Arcanum, Fenris followed the path of the largest artery until the cylinder broke, then groped around until he found the other side and pulled it close. He felt a painful pull on his own brands, as if their power was being siphoned to heal the rift. He pulled back his hand in shock, luckily keeping it phased via his brands until it met the open air. He examined his fingers and the back of his hand, to his surprise finding nothing amiss. Fenris gingerly returned his hand, finding other broken places to rejoin. He endured the pain, one leaking hole at a time until only one leak remained, deep in the heart’s center.

Feeling distinctly warm, Fenris took a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow with his left hand. He could find no joining part to mend the final hole. As his finger grazed the spot, he felt a pull not so much on his brands in particular as on his entire hand. Fenris saw a brief flash of light trail up his arm as he covered the hole with his fingertip. The blonde took a deep, relieved breath, though he remained unconscious. Fenris could not keep his finger there indefinitely. Indeed, he could feel his vitality being sapped over time. Eventually he pulled his hand away, a sharp pain stabbing at his heart again.

Anders’ blood was still leaking, albeit one slow drop at a time. Fenris mused that Anders might be able to assist, were he still capable of healing magic. His medical knowledge would probably be of little use, however. Magic. It ruined everything, and it must be to blame for this too. Fenris coughed, the rattle causing pangs in his chest. To clear his throat, he removed the canteen from his belt to take a swig.

While putting the canteen to his lips, Fenris finally noticed the smoke in the air that had made him cough. The upper half of the wall beside the Chantry door had burst into open flame. They needed to evacuate. The elf suspected that reactivating his brands long enough to drag Anders out of the building would be too painful. Thinking quickly, he poured water from his canteen over Anders’ face. He sighed in relief when Anders stirred. Eyes opening, Anders reached a shaky hand to his forehead, pulling his hand away from the heat as his index finger touched the heated mark of Tranquility. He attempted to heal himself to relieve the burning, but no magic passed from his fingers. The mage looked at his hand in concern. Fenris frowned. If Anders was aware of his wounded heart, he made no immediate sign of it.

Anders spoke aloud to himself. “I feel… nothing.” His eyebrows gathered in thought, eyes downcast.

“Explore your lack of feelings later,” Fenris advised. “The Chantry is on fire.” He pulled at one of Anders’ arms to get his attention. Looking up, Anders saw flames licking along the ceiling, spreading quickly. The smoke was already wafting towards the stage. After taking a sniff, Anders choked on the fumes.

“Yes,” Anders agreed. “Escape first.” The mage gathered himself to a seated position. As he stood, one of his feet slipped out from under him. He looked down and noticed the poorly constructed costume boots, quickly expanding his search to the foreign shirt and pants and the familiar coat. Though he had admittedly been taking less care of his health lately, Anders still took some pride in his appearance.

Anders found he had to ask. “Why am I wearing cheap house slippers made to look like boots?”

“Your clothes were damaged,” Fenris explained tersely. “Those were the closest in color I could find.”

“I see,” Anders said. “Form over function.” He did his best not to sound judgmental. Fuzzy boots were neither practical nor attractive footwear, but it was hardly the time to criticize the elf’s fashion sense.

“Just try to avoid drawing further attention,” Fenris advised. “Your life may depend on it.” Fenris thought to himself that, alternatively, it would hardly matter if later questioning confirmed that Anders was Tranquil. He asked himself, not for the first time, whether he had the will to end Anders’ life.

Fenris’ thoughts were interrupted by the collapse of a side beam holding up the Chantry’s ceiling. The far corner of the ceiling had just collapsed. The beam dropped diagonally, pushed forward by the slope of the falling roof. The beam smashed into the upper arch of the door, which held due to the door’s structural integrity. The collapse sent bits of ceiling to the floor, where the fire found new purchase. One shattered board fell to the red curtain on the side of the room. The fibers caught flame fantastically fast.

Anders’ eyes followed the path of the fire on the side curtains as it trailed towards the stage. Shaking his head to clear it, he appeared to recognize his location. He spotted his staff across the stage and Fenris’ sword nearby. Arm over his face to combat the heat and smoke, he gathered them awkwardly before returning to Fenris’ side. He held out the sword to Fenris, blade dragging heavily along the stage floor.

Fenris declined it with a shake of his head. “I am not at full strength,” he admitted reluctantly. “Can you carry it outside?” Anders nodded. Fenris tried not to flinch upon noting Anders scrutinizing his condition.

He ended up flinching all the same, though in response to an unexpected sound. The air filled with static electricity as showers of sparks popped from behind the burning velvet curtain. The sparks caused a pair of additional fires to spring up on the wooden floor, both spreading slowly outwards. One of the blankets covering the stained glass windows also caught ablaze, a trail of fire zipping upwards rapidly to join the growing circle of flame following the boards and tiles of the roof from the door toward them.

“One more thing,” Anders said. “My pack.” He dropped the sword momentarily and lurched towards the pews, again covering his mouth. He kept to the side of the aisle furthest from the curtain. Fenris thought to call out to Anders to tell him to come back. It occurred to him that a Tranquil mage may have little care for their own safety. Fenris’ mouth simply hung open as he watched the blonde recklessly risk his own life over the contents of a backpack. The mage’s expression was impossible to read behind his arm.

“Anders!” Fenris yelled. The mage was luckily bent down when another shower of sparks popped from behind the curtain. “Leave it!” The warrior’s stern advice was heeded after a fashion. The mage fussed with the pack before abandoning it. Meanwhile, the mage broke into a sweat from the increasing heat in the room. He was crouched down for his return, avoiding the wall of smoke descending from the ceiling.

Just as Anders picked up the sword hilt again, the ceiling collapsed entirely. The center beam, formerly held up by a series of internal arches, dropped when only one arch remained untouched by fire. The collapse of the ceiling’s far corner had ironically made it difficult for the fire to reach one side of the arch nearest the door. The fire had raged closer and closer to the back stage where Fenris and Anders stood. It was the end of the beam nearest them that swung down, crashing through the flimsy backdrop of Minrathous and through stage to the ground beneath, the pyre helplessly falling over on its metal stand. 

Anders managed to pull back out of the way. Fenris barely turned to face the beam before it plowed through the stage into him, forcing him to lose his balance and fall. The beam finally ceased its forward movement after pinning Fenris’ leg to the stage. The elf screamed in surprised pain, clutching his leg.

“You’re wounded,” Anders surmised. The elf groaned, an open grimace covering his face. He tried to light his brands to move the beam, but it was too heavy even for his supernatural strength. Anders tried to assist with lifting the beam, but he the oppressive weight of it was too much for them both combined.

“Can’t you… phase out your leg?” Anders asked. “Like with your hand?” He made a fisting motion.

“No.” Fenris shook his head. He looked up at Anders, whose eyes were pinned behind him. Looking back, Fenris saw that the center beam had pulled fire to the backdrop, and it had been mostly eaten away. The flames that licked toward the stage from the backdrop were also closing in from the pews.

The elf’s mouth set in a hard line. He knew a lost cause when he saw one. “You should go,” Fenris said.

“No,” Anders said. “That’s the last thing I should do.” Their eyes locked, green orbs questioning curiously while amber orbs responded with stubborn determination. Time seemed to stop, despite their hazardous surroundings, as a single orange spark flew between their faces, a piece of painted sky joining the cloud of smoke from the remnants of the backdrop behind them. Fenris’ eyes softened, startled. He feared he could not unilaterally end Anders’ life after all. Luckily, he suspected he might not have to.

Anders looked down. “I have an idea. Instead of moving the beam, can we shift your leg out through the stage?” The boards had already been rent by the beam. Anders began prying at the nearest upturned board. Fenris took his queue and began digging his fingers into a gap on the other side of the beam. After a moment’s work, they pried one of the boards loose near Fenris’ leg. With a burst of energy from his brands and a grunt of pain from using them, Fenris pried the last board loose. Tenderly, Anders extracted Fenris’ leg by pulling it down into the gap and back out at a place further from the beam’s fall.

“Let’s get out of here,” Anders said, indicating his readiness. Fenris leaned against Anders, guiding them towards an exit behind the stage that led to the Mother’s rectory. He took the mage’s staff for support, freeing up the mage’s arm to drag the warrior’s sword. They made it out to Fenris’ open sigh of relief.

As they stumbled out into fresh air, they heard another collapse behind them. Tall metal rods holding the metal symbol of the sun marking the top of all Andrastian Chantries had fallen at last. While held up by a stone base with its own wooden structure for support, the weight had finally proven too much as the building’s structural integrity deteriorated beyond saving. From the sound of it, the giant metal sun’s edifice had fallen onto the stage, clanging into the fallen center beam before sliding to the ground.

“Bless the Maker, you’re alright,” Sebastian called. He had just come around the corner of the building, having given up on breaching the blazing fire at the Chantry’s main entrance. Sebastian clapped his arms to Fenris’ shoulders, causing the elf’s good knee to buckle before he righted himself in Anders’ grip.

“I see you preserved our cargo as well,” Sebastian noted with approval. “You’re a true friend, Fenris.” The archer guided Fenris away from the fire, relieving Anders from his position of main support.

“Am I?” the warrior countered drolly. Fenris smirked, looking at Sebastian from the corner of one eye. He shrugged off the help, stubbornly standing on his own despite the extensive injury to his leg. The elf gripped the mage staff, using it as a second leg while he kept the injured one raised, limping gracelessly.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Sebastian flashed an easy smile, his posture loose and self-assured. Anders for his part took to touching the brand again, now that it was merely warm instead of hot. After he shifted his head to view Sebastian, his nimble fingers dropped steadily down to the gold collar around his neck. Fenris’ eyes flicked over to Anders, blinking slowly, before returning full force to Sebastian.

“So I am,” Fenris said to the rogue agreeably, his tone making it clear that this had not been a foregone conclusion a moment ago. “And as a friend, I presume you will not relate to others what took place inside?” Fenris gestured at the Chantry with his chin. Sebastian coughed politely. “You presume well.”

“Wait,” Anders interrupted. “Neither of you are going to tell me what happened?” It sounded innocent enough, but Sebastian crooked an eyebrow at the question. The elf and prince looked at each other.

“No,” they said in unison. While Fenris grunted, Sebastian elaborated. “You’ve no right to ask, mage.”

“Okay,” Anders said, sighing in resignation. His face grew blank again. “Just forget I said anything.” As the three rounded the building, Anders spotted a small crowd across the street from the Chantry. Sebastian nodded in their direction. Anders straightened, deciding against further interruptions.

“I intend to forget,” Fenris said. The warrior turned to Sebastian. “What’s next?” As usual, he spoke his question with the inflection of a statement, all but certain that the answer was a foregone conclusion.

“A proper trial,” Sebastian said. “The only question is where. This town lacks the resources. Kirkwall is too… unstable.” The prince dismissed Kirkwall with his hand, then raised it to his chin thoughtfully. “Starkhaven remains the province of my half-witted cousin. For now.” He shook his head in annoyance.

“You have decided to retake your lands,” Fenris surmised. He looked utterly unsurprised.

“Not necessarily,” Sebastian wavered. “My duty is to the Free Marches and the Church of Andraste. Anders’ assault was a crime against our shared religion. This suggests that we should deliver him to the Divine. Or to one of her Seekers, should one intercept us along the way. Starkhaven can wait until after Anders has been secured and his rebellion laid to rest. My duty is clear. We head to Val Royeaux.”

“Hmph,” Fenris scowled at their destination. He looked back at Anders briefly, resisting the urge to tilt his head upon seeing the mage worrying his lower lip. An eyebrow raised gently, he turned back towards Sebastian, stepping so that he stood between the rogue and Anders. “You expect to attend this trial?”

“I’m a material witness,” Sebastian said, widening his arms to mark the self-evidence of his answer. “So are you. You should come with me. When the trial ends, we’ll head to Starkhaven. Together.” A gentle smile played on the rogue’s lips, his eyes twinkling momentarily. “My offer still stands, you know.”

Fenris grunted, amused. Behind him, Anders shifted his weight from one foot to another. The fire still raged in the Chantry, the worst of it now reaching the stained glass window nearest them. The glass shattered, bits of colored light crossing their faces as the glass fell inside and out. It did appear the fire would be contained to the Chantry, separated as it was from the rest of the town by barren earth.

The smoke was wafting from the window. Fenris prompted Sebastian. “I take it the horses are waiting?”

Sebastian gestured at his horse, still tied to the post holding the sign for the play. The horse Fenris had ridden into town was now beside it, having been moved nearer at Sebastian’s bidding. “After you.”

The rogue waited patiently for Fenris to make his way slowly forward, his weight on the staff. Fenris took a wide berth of the Chantry to be safe, even though a gentle breeze was pushing the fire the other direction. Sebastian continued to wait until Anders got the hint and followed after Fenris. Sebastian followed far behind, watching Anders’ vaguely mechanical steps with unrestrained satisfaction.

As Anders made it to the horses, he watched with concern as Fenris used his one good leg to volley himself half onto the horse. Gripping the saddle with one hand, Fenris forced his injured leg over the saddle with his other arm. Anders winced at the pained noise Fenris gave before settling into the saddle.

By the time Sebastian made it to their horses, Fenris was already mounted and reaching an arm down to Anders, silently instructing him to share the horse. Sebastian groused. “Wouldn’t it be preferable for him to walk? It’s not as if he’s going to mind.” Sebastian mounted his white steed with admirable agility.

“His weight will provide stability for my leg,” Fenris insisted. Anders accepted Fenris’ outstretched arm. One foot on the now vacated stirrup, he vaulted behind Fenris. He shifted his weight several times until he found a position that didn’t cause the elf’s injured leg up to rub against his own.

“Hold on,” Sebastian said. He fished at his utility belt, removing a red flask. “Maybe this will help.” Fenris took the potion from the prince’s outstretched hand and quaffed it eagerly. “Thank you.” The pained face on the elf eased significantly, though he continued to keep the foot on that leg outside the stirrup.

“Hold tight,” Fenris ordered. Anders complied, putting his arms around the elf’s slender waist. Without waiting for Sebastian to argue further, Fenris set his horse to a trot along the road leading out of town.

Though Sebastian had intended to follow immediately after, his attention was forced aside by a small hand tugging insistently at his chainmail leggings. “Serrah?” Sebastian looked down at a young boy with blond hair, large brown eyes, and up upturned nose. “Yes?” Sebastian asked impatiently. “What it is?”

“Me and my brother want to know,” the boy said. “Did that bad man start the fire?” The boy gestured towards Anders’ back, his gaze flicking to the docile mage in black before returning back to Sebastian.

“He did,” Sebastian said. “But don’t you worry. Wildhaven is safe now. The bad man is going far away.” The prince beamed a reassuring smile. He reached down and ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately.

“Good,” said the boy. He walked back over to a teenager in overalls, presumably his brother. Sebastian’s gaze followed the boys to a small crowd of townsfolk organizing to relay buckets of water from a public well a block away to the Chantry fire. Though he was no expert on the containment of fires, the Chantry looked like a lost cause to Sebastian. Mouth in a tight line, he bid his horse to follow after Anders.


	12. Therapeutics

As they rode a good ways ahead of Sebastian, Anders and Fenris found sufficient privacy to engage in conversation without being overheard. “Are you in any pain?” Fenris asked the mage behind him. The elf tried not to think too hard on the half healed injury to his own leg or the strain on his muscles and brands. Anders struggled to concentrate on an answer, his senses reeling without Justice to filter them. He tried his best to ignore the feeling of the wind in his hair, and the smells and sounds of the forest.

“Not as such, no,” Anders answered hesitantly. As if concerned that he was not acting blandly enough to pass as Tranquil, he cleared his throat and added in a neutral voice, “Thank you for asking, Serrah.” It had not passed Anders’ notice that Tranquil mages were universally polite even to former friends.

“What does that mean, ‘not as such’?” Fenris probed. He rolled his eyes at being so addressed. Fenris found himself feeling vaguely uncomfortable with Anders behind him on the horse. The cantering gait beneath them recreated a sense of motion that brought back unfortunate recent memories and highlighted his lingering soreness. Since Anders was the taller of them, the elf would not see easily over his shoulder were their positions reversed. So Fenris was stuck with the situation, aching pains and all.

“There is discomfort in my chest,” Anders clarified. He said it matter-of-factly, as though to reassure himself it wasn’t important. “I’m not sure why. I remember watching a play about Andraste, then waking up to the Chantry on fire. Whatever happened in between, I can’t recall it.” The mage leaned his chin on the elf’s shoulder in thought, inhaling a large breath and sighing it out with a complacent hum. The tangy scent of metal and sweat and something more struck Anders as divine, causing him to lick at his chapped lips. Still disoriented, it did not occur to Anders that this action might strike Fenris as unusual.

“Perhaps that’s for the best,” Fenris mused. “Forgetting pain can be a blessing in disguise. Here. Drink this.” Fenris removed a water canteen from his belt and passed it back, offering what little aid he could.

Anders took the flask, pausing in thought as he twisted the cap open. “How’s your leg?” he asked, then hastily added. “Not that I can do anything for you.” He dropped his eyes while removing the cap.

Fenris lifted his hurt leg to test it, then dropped it back down. “Better,” he replied curtly. He shrugged, making a blunt assessment. “The bones will heal. But I would not trust them for a long walk.” Fenris did not have to explain that a splint was unlikely to offer correction since the injury centered on his knee.

A distant rustling could be heard from deep in the forest. Anders dismissed it as a curious animal. Fenris was less sure. The elf scanned the forest for clues but found only the rustling of leaves in nearby bushes.

Anders took a swig of water. He held onto the canteen, examining it thoughtfully. “I feel like I’ve forgotten something important. Something about you.” He took another drink, lost in thought.

Fenris pulled his eyes from the forest momentarily to look back at Anders. He could only see half of Anders’ face, and then only from the corner of his eye. Anders had schooled his features into a show of emotionlessness. That it was schooled at all struck Fenris as strange. The elf decided to play a game.

“I confessed my undying love to you,” Fenris said, one foot gripping the stirrup as he guided the horse around a corner in the woodland path. He used his bluffing skills to inflect his voice such that it would be difficult to determine whether he was being sarcastic or not. “Knowing you were to be made tranquil, I gave you the collar you now wear as a parting gift.” Fenris smirked, though Anders could not see it.

Anders scowled, though Fenris could not see his expression either. “I know a mage collar when I see one,” he said. “Or feel one,” he added. Nevertheless, he squirmed a bit in the seat behind Fenris. Something about hearing this, even in jest, made the blonde’s heart clench uncomfortably. Though he had succeeded at tamping down the urgency of sights and smells, thus far he had been unable to dismiss his heightened awareness of Fenris’ proximity nor the sensations of their bodies touching.

“Yet you cannot prove me wrong,” Fenris prodded. He was testing Anders’ memory a final time. He found it lucky, almost too lucky, that Anders had no memory of the terrible things Vengeance had done.

“No,” Anders said, “but I also know you don’t love me. If anything, it’s the opposite.” Nevertheless, his arms tightened their grip around Fenris as he nuzzled his stubble along a vertical gap in the center of Fenris’ tunic. Suddenly embarrassed, he pulled away and wordlessly handed the canteen back. Fenris drank most of the contents, willing his own strength to return, before replacing the canteen on his belt.

Fenris’ voice grew softer. “I don’t hate you, Anders. Especially not now.” Sebastian was steadily gaining on them, now steadying at a point where he could overhear if they spoke too loudly. The tone of Fenris’ voice caught the blonde off guard, prompting a physical response and a knee jerk desire to backlash.

“Now that I’m not longer a threat, you mean” Anders said snidely. He shifted in his seat again, this time evincing some slight distress. Curious, Fenris shifted in the saddle, pressing back against Anders. He let out a huff as he recognized the cause of Anders’ concern. It appeared life played tricks on them both.

Fenris began laughing, a deep chuckle strung with dark amusement. Anders’ blush remained unseen.

“What’s so funny?” Sebastian inquired, pitching his voice’s volume to overtake the horse’s clopping. Fenris turned back to look over Anders’ shoulder at Sebastian. He gave the prince a reassuring grin.

“It occurs to me that I can be the first to hear Anders’ confession,” Fenris answered loudly. “May I?”

Sebastian waved his hand in dismissal at the question. “Be my guest. You can pass the details along to me later.” The rogue returned his hand to the reins just as a rustling sound flitted beside him.

Sebastian’s head snapped sideways to follow the sound. Fenris followed his gaze and could have sworn he saw a small figure run past, taking a rough shortcut through the forest. Fenris blinked his eyes. When he reopened them, it was gone. Sebastian’s face bore no indication that he had seen anything. Anders’ head remained face forward the entire time, evincing no interest at all in nearby noises. Both Fenris and Sebastian dismissed the rustling as probably coming from a passing forest animal.

Fenris leaned back and turned his head a quarter of the way so he could speak to Anders more quietly. He considered his next words carefully. “I couldn’t help noticing that you are the furthest thing from Tranquil right now.” To punctuate his point, he grinded his backside against Anders’ growing bulge.

Anders gripped Fenris’ hips tightly, pushing his face down to hide it. “It’s not my fault.” If he was vaguely mortified by his physical reaction, he was even more worried at his non-Tranquility being discovered. He searched his mind for a way to conceal his emotional state of sensory overload and came up empty.

“No,” Fenris frowned. “It never is.” The elf scooted his rear back to its previous place on the saddle, giving Anders privacy. But he leaned back with his chest. “And did you shove stuffing down your coat?”

Anders sighed his surrender. “The pillow my mother gave me before I was carted to the Circle,” he admitted. There was no sense hiding the truth. Fenris understood immediately that this was the object hastily retrieved from the pack in the Chantry. He wondered if Anders had returned to Darktown for it.

The warrior considered their situation. Anders had his full faculties. If Sebastian persisted in bringing Anders to trial, it would turn into an opportunity for Anders to preach mage rights to a public audience. Worse, the failure to make Anders Tranquil could be claimed a miracle by his supporters, giving him a veneer of supernatural authority. No doubt, Sebastian would react practically and kill Anders if he knew. Or worse, he would try the Rite of Tranquility again, with potentially even more disastrous results.

“Is the demon still with you?” Fenris asked. He twisted around to see the mage’s open face clearly. His stomach lurched as he turned, and he felt a surge of heat and weakness. He studiously ignored it.

“No,” Anders responded immediately. “I feel… empty. If he was with me, I would have felt him by now.” He seemed just as concerned about the prospect as Fenris felt, which was vaguely comforting.

Fenris pondered his options carefully before speaking again. “I would you help if I could,” he said. “But Sebastian will not allow it. Nor can I fight him when I am too weak to walk or lift a sword.”

“It’s not just the leg, is it? Why won’t you tell me what happened?” Anders asked. His voice dropped as he leaned into Fenris’ ear conspiratorially. He seemed more ashamed than afraid. “Was it Justice?”

“Vengeance,” Fenris corrected. “But yes. And the less said of it, the better.” The elf resisted the urge to look back again to ensure that Anders had no memory of Vengeance’s misdeeds. The mage seemed incapable of obfuscation. That his face now showed evidence of remorse was proof enough to Fenris.

Anders cursed under his breath. “I’m so sorry. It’s my fault. He was out of control, and still I gave him a second chance. Did it just to save myself.” The mage sighed. Having seen the carnage, Fenris understood what prompted Anders. When Anders looked back, Fenris allowed his eyes to show his sympathy, however briefly. After nodding his head, Anders whispered, “I told him to stop calling himself that.”

“Yes, and he was clearly in the business of listening to you,” Fenris said sardonically. “He was following your bad example, Anders.” The name curled from his lips, underscoring Fenris’ point that Anders was not the mage’s given name. He had tried to pry the real name out before, without success.

“And you’re one to talk, Leto.” Anders did his best to mock Fenris while saying the elf’s given name. He completely failed at applying the same gravitas. Fenris smirked as the insult passed harmlessly past him.

“Anyway,” Anders continued, “I can’t cast with this damnable collar on. And Sebastian will call it treason if you aid me. I…” Anders seemed lost in thought, though he recovered. “I understand. You lived like a fugitive for years. You’ve earned your freedom now. Despite what I said when Danarius came for you.”

Fenris’ eyes widened in surprise. Curious, he pressed for clarification. “Why did you say it then?” On any other day, he would not ask for fear of the answer. Somehow the weakness in his leg and the increasing fever of his blood decreased his interest in policing his social interactions with Anders.

“The truth?” Fenris could feel Anders worrying one of his thumbs nervously against the elf’s waist. The mage sighed, trying to banish the tension. “You were the biggest threat to our plan. With anyone else, I could safely ignore their concerns. Out-cast any physical assault. Except maybe Hawke, and I never felt I had to worry there. But you? You’re formidable and can resist magic. That would have brought Justice out, and I feared what he would do to you. Believe it or not, you’d have been safer in Tevinter.”

“Then you and I do not agree on what safety means,” Fenris said crossly. “Have you any idea what Danarius would have done to me had Hawke listened to your sage advice to hand me over?”

Anders sounded cross as well. “No, actually. Since you never speak of your past, I really don’t. Beaten you for running off? Made you a lowly bodyguard again? Humiliated you in front of the other slaves? What if the alternative was worse? What if Justice wanted worse things from you than Danarius?”

“That’s the problem,” Fenris spitted. “The things they wanted were all too much the same.” A wave of miasma passed over the elf. He leaned back against Anders in the saddle, resting his head on the mage’s pillow swaddled chest. He grew genuinely nauseated from the gentle rocking of the horse beneath him.

Anders paused a moment, shocked, his heart racing. He had long worried that Justice’s fascination with Fenris’ lyrium brands went beyond homesickness. He had assumed the spirit sought to violently take the lyrium for himself. Did Fenris recognize something sexual in that interest? And if so, did he recognize it because Danarius had acted much the same? As the elf leaned back, Anders tried to calm his heart. He swallowed, nervously changing the subject. “If you wish to follow Sebastian, it’s your choice to make.”

Anders looked back at Sebastian. His gleaming white armor and serene face combined with the gracefulness of his white steed to make him look even more ethereal than usual. Anders turned back around quickly, not wanting to draw undue attention from the following prince. He worried his lower lip.

“Starkhaven could be good for you,” Anders posited. “You just… Just don’t blow it on my account. I’m not worth it. The truth is, based on the condition of my heart right now, I fear I’m already dead.” The mage’s voice sounded numb, as if he were already resigned to death and almost welcomed it. Anders felt much as he had at the Gallows, empty and aching and just about ready to give up on himself.

Fenris looked back, startled. It was the same fear that first convinced him to begin their conversation on the road. He knew Anders was a skilled healer, that he operated a clinic for years. But he found it disturbing that the mage could diagnose his own condition without an examination and while collared.

“Perhaps you can heal yourself,” the elf offered. His determined voice gave proof that he was not so willing to give up. “I hesitate to remove the collar. How do we know Vengeance will not join you again?”

Anders thought this through. “If he’s hovering around hoping to return, he’ll wait until the next time I’m in trouble. I can promise you; next time the answer is no. But until then, I wouldn’t trust me either.”

Fenris quirked an eyebrow. The mage managed to surprise him with his practicality. Fenris expected him to verbally minimize the danger. The blonde’s expectation of caution made the elf consider other options. “You are in no danger now. He will know to expect stiff resistance. What if I remove the collar just long enough for you to attempt to heal yourself? Then I will replace it.” Thinking ahead, Fenris spurred his horse faster as they rounded another corner in the forest trail. By the time Sebastian had completed the corner on his steed, there would be sufficient distance to obscure their actions.

Anders considered this before nodding. Fenris fished into his belt and retrieved the metal key. He handed the horse’s reins to Anders before pulling the mage’s neck forward by the coat’s collar. The mage’s eyes widened as he was pulled forward, then he took another long inhale without thinking. Fenris smirked, then shuddered as the mage’s scent wafted to his nostrils. Something warm and inviting lingered under elfroot and ozone. He struggled not to breath in himself, deciding instead to concentrate on the task at hand. Though it was awkward, Fenris managed to unlock the collar and pull it gently off.

Anders waited a moment with his eyes closed, feeling his mana returning. He ignored the hum of approval Fenris made as he reached his full potential. “Here goes nothing,” Anders said. He cast the strongest healing spell he could and centered it over his heart. He could feel the healing pulse and felt rejuvenated. But still he felt something missing, something wrong that even his magic could not touch.

Anders tried again, with results no better. Finally he channeled the last of his mana not to himself but to Fenris’ leg, figuring he might as well put the energy somewhere useful. Fenris flinched as Anders’ hand touched his injured leg, as if startled by a ghost. As the healing energy flowed in, he relaxed again.

“Tapped out,” Anders said. Fenris clasped the collar back over the man’s pale neck, thumbing over the keyhole to ensure that the lock had caught. He tilted his head while Anders remained pulled forward, curious to see the mage’s expression. His next sentence came as an accusation. “Why did you heal me?” After testing his leg again, Fenris put it into the stirrup gracefully. He still felt weak, but no longer in pain.

Anders shrugged. “I’m beyond helping. Apparently. You’re not.” He pointed to himself with the first bit of pride he had shown since the brand marked his forehead. “Still a healer, yes?” Fenris nodded mutely. Anders gave a wan smile back. He pulled back again, Fenris reluctantly letting go of the mage collar.

So it was true. The tiny hole to the Fade in Anders’ heart that Fenris couldn’t repair was still leaking. Anders’ hours were numbered. Fenris debated describing his attempt to help but decided the details didn’t matter. “I’m sorry,” he said by way of condolence. He stiffened his back and urged the horse along. If he was to deliver a corpse to the Divine, still he would do his duty as Sebastian requested. He would consider the prince’s offer after, though his gut now told him that he would turn the offer down.

Meanwhile, Fenris would watch over Anders and provide what little comfort he could in the face of death. Fenris felt tears soaking through his tunic at his shoulders. He gripped Anders’ hands around his waist. He could not think of anything more to say. They rode in silence as Sebastian gallantly followed.


	13. Galvanized

The three riders had just rounded a corner, revealing that the forest gave way to perfectly plowed fields ahead, when things changed. “Halt!” In the middling distance, a brunette in her early thirties with a loose ponytail tied at her neck thrust her staff in the middle of the path ahead. The earth cracked open before her, opening a fissure in the road that disappeared into head high rows of grain. Fenris’ horse startled, but he wrangled its reins so that it veered sideways instead of rearing up altogether.

Sebastian emerged from the forest and had more time to leisurely stop his steed. He frowned at the woman ahead, taking in her long red robes. She continued casting, clouds forming overhead, arms swirling, her robes swaying in the artificial breeze, its motions echoed by tall stalks of maturing grain.

“Hand over the prisoner,” called out a young male voice behind them. A dusky skinned youth with shoulder length black hair stepped from the shadows of the tree line, white and gray robes catching the sun. “Please,” he added deferentially. A young round faced teenager with a brunette bob, feminine gray robes, and a wooden staff elbowed the young man. He gave his voice a louder edge. “Or else!”

“Or else what?” asked Sebastian with humor in his voice. He clearly was not intimidated in the least.

A lightning bolt crackled overhead, landing pointedly on the path near Sebastian. His white steed reared up, its eyes wild, but Sebastian held on. “Whoa there,” he yelled to calm the horse. “Steady.” Snorting and turning its head, the steed regained its equanimity in response to Sebastian’s commands. The horse Fenris and Anders rode upon stomped its feet nervously in outward sympathy for its equine brethren.

“Not lightning again,” Fenris said under his breath. He grunted in annoyance. He narrowed his eyes at the red robed mage before turning his horse to face the two younger mages blocking the forest path.

Sebastian spoke up. “Unless you seek to draw the wrath of her Holiness Justinia the Divine, you will let us pass.” He gestured toward the other horse. “This mage is the property of Her Perfection, and I act as Her agent. He is wanted for crimes against the church and for fomenting armed rebellion in Kirkwall.”

“Even the Divine can’t own a person,” countered the youngest mage. Fenris said nothing, but his nostrils flared as he clamped his mouth shut. The elf’s hand sought out Anders’ lower arm and squeezed hard.

Sebastian dismounted from his steed, grabbing his bow but holding it casually, undrawn. “Stay here, girl,” he said to his horse. “Stay.” He walked towards the mage in red. “I’m sorry, but do I know you?”

“No,” she replied. “But I’ve heard of you, Prince Vael. I was in the Circle at Starkhaven.” Her chestnut hair contrasted with pale skin, dark eyes and berry lips beneath swirling violet tattoos on both cheeks.

“I see,” he said with judicious respect. “Then I’m sure we can work something out.” He held out his arms in a gesture of calm, unintentionally drawing attention to the bow he carried like an extra limb.

The woman spat at her feet. “You think my being in your city’s Circle recommends you to me or vice versa?” Her voice was thick with disdain. “You must have no idea what went on there.” Thunder rolled. Anders tried to keep his face schooled in a neutral expression, this requiring enough concentration that he missed the rustling as Fenris fumbled at his own utility belt before returning his hand to Anders’ arm.

“We all owe Anders a debt,” called out the man behind them. “What he did was for every mage who was pulled from their parents’ arms, locked in cells, beaten, raped in the night, made Tranquil for daring to think for themselves… Rescuing Anders from persecutionists like you is the least we can do.” 

The man nodded at Anders. The blonde gave no response, though he could now recognize the youth from the Gallows whose hair had always been covered by an unattractive cowl. Anders noticed but gave no reaction as Fenris opened a compartment on the mage’s belt. Fenris covered the surreptitious act by reaching down to a pack tied to the horse’s saddle to pull his sword free. Though he could only hold the sword loosely, it was enough to serve as a warning to any who would try to attack them directly.

Sebastian turned to look at Alain, sizing up the handsome young man, his bright passionate eyes rimmed by dark lashes. “An admirable intention,” the prince said. “But you come too late to fulfill your ambition. If you will but take a glance at his forehead, you’ll see that Anders has already been made Tranquil for his crimes. The man you came to save is no longer present in this world.” Sebastian gestured at Anders.

The mage stepped sideways for a better look. “Maker’s breath,” he said by way of confirmation. The red robed mage’s hand gripped harder on her staff in anger. The youngest mage stepped closer to Alain, grasping his arm in support. “Doesn’t matter,” she said, voice loud to lend her authority in her refusal to stand down. After a pause, the man beside her added, “Either way, he doesn’t belong with you.”

“I take it you too are from the Starkhaven Circle,” Sebastian inquired to the dark haired man. He walked slowly towards the pair now closing in on the other side of Anders and Fenris and their horse.

“Alain,” the man clarified. He gestured at the mage in red. “Terrie over there was lucky enough to evade capture after Starkhaven’s tower burned down. I was less lucky, got caught while we were on the run. They sent me to Kirkwall, to the Gallows. The longer you stayed in town, the worse things got for us.”

“I was in Kirkwall, and it’s true,” said the teenaged girl beside Alain. “I heard the stories. So my parents tried to keep me from the Circle as long as they could. When the Templars finally took me, I wasn’t even allowed to say goodbye. Ser Alrik thought a little closure was enough to justify Tranquility and rape.”

Anders struggled not to react emotionally. He hadn’t recognized Ella until she described what had happened to her. He well remembered Ser Alrik and thanked Hawke mentally for convincing Justice to save the young mage rather than kill her for falling, however unwillingly, under Templar influence. He worried that the young girl had no idea what she was getting herself into by threatening Sebastian.

“If it wasn’t for Anders,” Alain argued, “Who knows what would have happened to Ella?”

“I was there,” Fenris recalled. “Justice almost killed her. Yet here she stands, all the same.” Fenris realized he said this more to Sebastian, and even more to himself, rather than to Ella or Alain or Terrie.

“The spirit was angry,” Ella recalled. “If I knew everything he knew then, I would have been angry too.” Anders sighed, his heart clenching at hearing that Ella had forgiven Justice’s confused attempt on her life. He had spent many sleepless nights berating himself for not keeping Justice under better control.

“Alrik was a terrible man,” Sebastian agreed. “But I’m no Templar. I held no dominion over Meredith or Alrik. The Maker will judge their actions in the end and deal with them as He sees fit. It is in His hands.”

“I could say the same for Anders,” Terrie argued. “But what of this world? Is there to be no reckoning for Templars, only for the mages? You were Elthina’s favorite,” Terrie added accusatorily. “She had the authority, didn’t she? You could have pressed her for mercy. From what I hear, you did just the opposite. You’re as much to blame as she is. As I see things, Anders was only balancing the scales.”

“So for her inaction, you think Elthina deserved to die?” Sebastian asked, outrage lacing his voice. “Anders deserves to be free, to avoid trial for murder? For treason and heresy? Do I deserve to die?”

The youngest mage took a step forward, pointing her staff at Sebastian. “Is it treason to demand that your leaders fulfill their promises? That they uphold the honor of their position or give up their power to someone more capable? Or is that patriotism? If blind loyalty is the only form of patriotism left, are the Free Marches truly free?” She cast a spell to aid her companions, preparing the field for battle.

“Enough talk,” Sebastian said, drawing his bow. “Past a point, we’re never going to agree. Fenris?” He looked back at the elf, unsure whether his companion was well enough to fight the mages with him.

Fenris pulled his sword up shakily, both arms clearly straining from the effort. “I am here.”

“I expected nothing less,” Sebastian said with an open grin. “Maker, give us strength!” With that rallying cry, he let loose his first arrow, piercing the youngest mage in the chest. She let out a sudden cry, falling back with her hands clutched at the arrow between her breasts. A dribble of red appeared on her robes. Unseen by Sebastian, Anders covered his mouth with one hand while his other hand worried at the mage collar at his throat. Fenris looked down both sides of the road, hoping for an opening with which to speed Anders away. He cursed in Arcanum upon finding both directions deliberately blocked.

“No! Ella!” Alain bent over to examine the woman crumpled beside him. He huffed in relief at seeing her wounded but not dead. While turning his hands in wide circles to cast a healing spell, he straightened to address the field of wheat. “Josie, get out of here. Go on!” A young girl in blond pigtails streaked from the field to the forest, where an unmarked path promised safe passage. That small figure they’d heard rustling through the forest along their way suddenly made more sense. Sebastian momentarily trained his bow on the moving target, but he decided against firing, shifting his bow’s aim instead to Terrie.

Terrie stood protected by a shimmering bubble. Sebastian held his arrow in place, waiting with tension writ across his brow. As the bubble faded, Terrie finished casting a fireball, not at Sebastian, but at his horse. The steed reared up again, one side of its hide charred though it yet lived. The horse’s panic sent it rampaging back towards the forest, Sebastian dodging nimbly out of the way to avoid being trampled.

Seeing the attention of the battle falling elsewhere, Fenris let his giant sword drop halfway with a grunt. Looking at Anders from the corner of his eyes, he made a decision. “This is your chance,” he said. “Run.”

Anders didn’t need to be told a second time. He levered energetically off the horse. He took a second deciding which direction to go, then looked back up at Fenris. “Thank you,” he said. Fenris nodded. Anders looked over at Terrie. “And thank you. I’m in your debt.” Anders headed to the edge of the road.

Sebastian had just recovered his position and was raising his bow for another try at Terrie when his attention was pulled by the clang of Fenris’ sword falling to the road. He saw Anders darting across the road. “But…” stood agape momentarily, his mouth open like a fish. “You’ve been made Tranquil.”

“Maker, you’re thick!” Anders fled into the field of wheat, adrenaline pumping. By the time Sebastian changed targets, Anders had disappeared into endless rows of grain that stretched on for acres.

Sebastian walked this way and that looking for a hint of black in the waving grain. Between the shadows waving sheaves in the artificial wind, he could not make out which motion heralded Anders running. “Blast it,” he cursed. He straightened his bow and fired in the right general direction, moving his mouth in a silent prayer as he released the arrow. The arrow whizzed into the field without hitting its target. The archer’s thin lips demonstrated his dismay, only exacerbated by his earlier lapse in judgment. “How is this possible?” Vael thought back to Anders’ behavior during their journey, seeking clues he’d missed.

Terrie interrupted Sebastian’s inner dialogue. “Where’s your maker now?” she gloated. She was winding up to cast another offensive spell, her hands gathering swirls of red into a tidy orb. She unleashed another fireball, this one hitting Sebastian on the arm facing her. He staggered from the hit, the arm from his other side clutching across even as he kept a tight hold on his bow. He attempted to right himself and draw an arrow. His charred right arm would not comply with his wishes.

“Get out of my sight,” Sebastian yelled. He scrabbled at his belt for a healing potion. “Or I’ll bring down the wrath of the Maker himself.” He grunted in frustration at finding his only remaining healing potion shattered by the blast from the fireball. Fenris eased himself down from his position on his horse. He managed to hold his sword aloft with the power of his brands, though he was unable to mask the pain from the pull on his heart. He strolled forward, taking a protective stance at Sebastian’s wounded side.

Alain’s eyes grew wide at the spectacle of Fenris’ lit brands. Terrie looked across to Alain. “Let’s go,” she advised. “We’ll catch up to Anders before they can.” She ran, following Anders into the tall field of grain.

Alain hesitated, looking from Terrie to his fallen companion. Though he had pumped healing spells into Ella continually, the blood seeping out exceeding his abilities as a healer. He looked back to Sebastian and Fenris. “I’m sorry,” he said. “We didn’t mean to hurt anyone.” He bent and closed the girl’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, Ella” Alain said sadly. “I should have never involved you in this.” Prying the staff reverently from the brunette’s grip, he quaffed a potion and promptly disappeared from sight. The rustling of his robes could be heard heading toward the forest shortcut that the girl in pigtails had used. Sebastian let loose an arrow at the leaves of a shifting bush, but it passed harmlessly into the forest.

“If I didn’t know better,” Sebastian said ruefully, “I’d think the Maker was on their side.” He raised an eyebrow, inviting Fenris to counter his cynicism with a statement of support for Sebastian’s cause.

Fenris said nothing, instead walking to the dead mage with sure steps. He searched her body for clues that might reveal the mages’ plans for Anders. He pocketed a few silver coins and an indeterminate potion before locating a folded scrap of paper. He unfolded it as he walked back to Sebastian, who craned his neck over the paper so he could view it from the side. The map proved easily readable from all directions, the path from Kirkwall to the Imperial Road and north to Tevinter marked with a red line.

“If Tevinter has taken an interest,” Sebastian warned, “we’ll need a small army to escort him safely.” The rogue inspected his blistered arm as he spoke, wincing pain as he touched a black fleck among red welts. The fireball had eaten through his black padded tunic, save for a few patches that melded with the flesh on the rogue’s arm. He worried about infection without proper healing but saw no immediate remedy.

Fenris frowned. “And how long will it take to gather this army? Hours? Days? Weeks?”

“What difference does it make?” Sebastian asked. “As we’ve just seen, we’re hardly enough on our own. I can only assume the Maker has plans that require Anders to keep his freedom for a bit longer.”

“Now is not the time for platitudes,” Fenris said. He crossed his arms over his chest, shifting on his feet.

“In that case,” Sebastian said with open arms, “what do you propose? Shall we chase him blindly through the farmlands? Or would you go door to door asking the farmers if they’ve seen him? ‘Excuse me, sir. Have you seen a tall blonde apostate wearing black robes? No? How about a tall blonde con artist in a disguise, say, wearing the overalls of a fellow farmer?’ He’d have no trouble blending in.”

Fenris sighed. “Go raise your army. I’ll follow Anders’ trail. I’ll have messages sent to Starkhaven along the way detailing my progress.” The warrior nervously transferred his weight from foot to foot.

Sebastian’s brows drew together as he considered the proposal. “I know you feel responsible for him. You’ve told me before about your promise to Hawke. But surely it’s best served by coming with me.”

“I know where my duty lies,” Fenris grumbled. Sebastian shook his head forlornly.

“It’s not that I don’t understand,” he said. “I just hoped…” He raised his injured arm for sympathy.

“I know,” Fenris said. “But perhaps it was not meant to be. For a bit longer.” The elf shrugged, looking nonchalant. “If it helps, I feel certain we will meet again.” He looked at Sebastian with an honest face.

Sebastian frowned, concerned. “All right. Another trial for me to raise myself to meet, I see. Fine.” The prince mounted the horse Fenris rode previously, boosting the strength of his one good arm by leveraging the saddle horn. He took up the black horse’s reins with his one good hand.

Fenris removed a pack from the horse and slung it over his shoulders. He checked his canteen and added another from the horse to his belt. Anders was not so well provisioned, and he was still plagued by a tiny hole in his heart. Leaking blood little by little, the mage would not get far away from Fenris.

The determined elf set off into the fields. After watching Fenris’ figure disappear, Sebastian kicked the stirrups and set off on his way to Starkhaven. He had an army to gather, though it would take time.


	14. Cravings

If Anders was honest with himself, he was getting a bit tired of running. He was getting more than a little tired in general. This did not bode well for his future. It was easy to get lost in the field, the tall sheaves of grain the same shade as his hair, the dark rich earth close to the color of his robes, wind whistling past, making the motions of his running less obvious to those looking for him. As he expected, his escape earned him only a temporary reprieve. He was still being pursued, including now by his mage rescuers.  
  
If he was honest again, he wanted the mage welcoming party to find him and take him in almost as little as he wanted Sebastian to hand him to the Divine. Based on the reverential way the mages spoke of him and his past deeds, he feared they would expect him to lead some sort of mage resistance. While he was known for his manifesto, few understood just how much Justice contributed to it. Anders felt deeply unequipped to sustain a mage rebellion. He was no strategist, just a man with strong opinions.  
  
He was a man with strong opinions who wanted to live more than he wanted anything else. So even though he owed the mages a debt, he would rather pay it later. As in, later if he lived to see later. He half thought he was running to find a quiet place to die. Some smaller voice inside told him there was something out there he was running towards. Running towards by outrunning villains and saviors both.  
  
He had stopped caring whether any of it made sense. Every quick step was a strain on his heart now.  
  
Anders took several odd turns in his route to confuse his would-be pursuers. He actually saw the red robed Terrie in the far distance once, following an abandoned trail into another patch of woods. Good. From a gentle hill, he saw Sebastian on the black horse headed down the road to Starkhaven. Even better. Anders thought he saw Alain entering a cozy farmhouse, Ellie perhaps already inside. Perfect.  
  
So why could he not shake the sense that he was still being followed. And why wasn’t Fenris with Sebastian? Had they split up? Yes, that must be it. Had to be. Anders could feel Fenris getting closer.  
  
Wait. Anders could feel Fenris getting closer? When did he start feeling Fenris? While running? Earlier, on the horse? In the Chantry? He was running towards by running from. Outrunning everyone except the only person capable of keeping up with his mind. Running toward Fenris by running away from him.  
  
He hadn’t noticed it at first, being far too busy worrying about saving his own hide. But there it was. It was as small and ever present as Anders imagined the compass inside a bird’s brain was, that tiny directional arrow telling them north from south during their migrations. Justice was gone. Anders couldn’t even bring himself to mourn him this time, the cheating liar. He should, however, feel that same sense of unaccustomed loneliness. He didn’t. Now there was this… other thing. Fenris. Instead.  
  
Thinking of Fenris reminded Anders to check the compartment on his belt. He hoped but hadn’t dared to check. But it was true. Fenris had stashed a small shiny metal key there. To remove the mage collar in Sebastian’s presence was a death sentence. To remove it while running was an impossibility. To remove it while running from Fenris and running to Fenris and running for his life made perfect sense somehow.  
  
Anders placed his back to a tree. He fumbled with the collar around his neck until he found the keyhole and unlocked the clasp with his long nimble fingers. He looked over the collar curiously, considering whether he might find it useful later. His mouth scowled as he decided that, either way, he did not want the cursed thing anywhere near him. He threw it to the ground and stomped on it. He thought to crush it with a force spell for good measure. His attempt to cast yielded only an excruciating pain in his chest.  
  
That again. Maker’s balls. Tentatively, Anders flipped on his gentle healing panacea. This caused him no pain. He reasoned that he might be mana constrained, compared to his time with Justice. He could test the limits of his casting later. For now, it was enough that he would heal slowly as he continued onward. Would his aura heal Fenris as well if he grew close enough? Anders found himself hoping that it would. Fenris was clearly unwell. Anders was still a healer at heart, albeit an apostate mending on the run.  
  
Fenris was following him. Anders was getting steadily slower, tiring. Fenris was getting faster, no doubt recovering from whatever had happened to him in the Chantry at Wildhaven. Fenris was so much faster than him. Smart, too. Twice, Anders was forced to adjust his path forward after sensing based on direction that Fenris had taken shortcut that would bring them into closer contact. Just to top it off, the whistling wind turned harder, dark clouds threatening rain. The downpour would turn the fertile fields to slush temporarily, smoothing the grains and pushing down leaves, making him all the more visible. As the heavy drops began to fall, Anders felt emotionally defeated. Yet Fenris had stopped following him.  
  
What was it Fenris had said once? Something about turning to face the tiger? If Fenris was bound to catch him and was gaining strength while Anders weakened, it was better to force a confrontation now. Based on Fenris’ actions, he wasn’t entirely sure what the elf wanted from him. He needed to find out. He had a million justifications, but ultimately, he couldn’t explain himself. He just knew he had to stop.  
  
Unaware that his right hand was pressed gently against his chest, he lumbered on. Anders followed the call in his head to Fenris’ position. This must be what Merrill felt like, finding her way around after arriving in Kirkwall with her sad little ball of twine. Anders knew that a wood cabin just inside a copse of trees was the place the moment he saw it. It was in poor repair, smoke blowing from the hearth.  
  
Though he still did not entirely understand why, Anders stood on the front stoop and smoothed the wet hair behind his ears. He brushed the water off his feather pauldrons. He stomped his boots, dislodging the sticky mud from their soles as best he could. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door. Unsurprisingly, it creaked on its hinges. The fire blazing in the hearth was the only light inside.  
  
Anders knew where Fenris would be long before he saw him there, sitting in a tall, square backed wooden chair in a far corner near the fire. The warrior’s legs were spread indolently, his back curved forward, his sword propped against the wall beside the chair within reaching distance of his hand. The firelight glinted over his lyrium brands, highlighting a few brown feathers and the metal of his armor, lighting an eye that glared unblinking at the door. As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Anders noted that the elf’s hair spiked wetly, almost translucent in the light, concealing a quarter of his face. The elf’s mouth was straight save for a single knowing smirk on the side of his face below that one glowing eye.  
  
Fenris was waiting. He was waiting, because he had felt Anders coming. This was many shades of wrong. Anders felt his heart thud in his chest. He startled visibly when lightning flashed, followed by thunder. The smirk on Fenris’ lips curled a little higher as the elf watched Anders dripping uncomfortably.  
  
It was time to haul out an old school tactic. He would try on the old renegade apostate charm. Why not?  
  
Anders took two steps in and closed the door behind him. “What’s wrong, honey? Having a bad day?” As he walked further into the room, Anders thought he saw the elf’s brands gently lighting up.  
  
Fenris released an awkward, somehow sad chuckle. “You could say that.” He put his lyrium branded hands, still covered by metal gauntlets with pointy fingertips, onto the wide arms of the wooden chair.  
  
“Yeah,” Anders sympathized. “Me too.” He started to walk towards Fenris slowly, trying not to move so suddenly that the elf would reach for his sword. “And you know how it is in this household…” He gestured widely at the cabin. As he walked closer, he noticed that Fenris’ brands weren’t actually lit per se. They were just… bright. Extra shiny. “Bad days can be…” It wasn’t just the brands. Fenris’ skin was… sparkling… lit up somehow… in the firelight. “Catching.” Anders was now bending forward, head tilting.  
  
His curiosity got the better of him. “Are you alright?” Anders’ weak attempt at charm turned off at the same time his concerned bedside demeanor turned itself on. He shouldn’t care. Fenris was chasing him. He was running away. He had by his assessment about two hours to live unless something changed. So why did he care if Fenris was injured or ill? Wasn’t that more of an advantage than a problem, really? If Fenris looked fevered and exhausted and near death himself, wasn’t that just a boon to his freedom?  
  
Yes, that was it. Anders would like to assess the nature of his advantage. It had nothing to do with his hand clutched at his chest, his knees sinking as he approached the fire. He was not swooning at the sight of Fenris, the metallic tang in the air mixing with the smoke from the fire. He was not crawling forward, listening to the elf’s belabored breathing and finding it undeniably sexy against the aural backdrop of the crackling fire. Not looking up at Fenris like a lost puppy, drawn forward in awe at the dark but shimmering figure that had something. Something he needed. Needed like life itself. Fenris was looking down at him, licking his lips, fingers tracing pinpoint lines idly into the wood of the chair’s arms.  
  
No, Anders was certainly not crawling to Fenris’ feet. Not even if he wanted to. Anders was the medical expert here. He was in control. A couple of feet from the chair, he gathered himself and, with strength he did not know he possessed, he stood back up. He walked the rest of the way on his own two feet. Relieved. Then Anders leaned over the chair, inhaling deeply. He braced his hands on the chair’s back.  
  
Looking perturbed, Fenris asked, “What are you doing?” The gauntlets stopped moving. Fenris did not tilt his head. He looked up with one eye peeking through his hair, his expression an open challenge. The elf’s nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply, blinking slowly, mouth opening as he took another deep breath. Anders felt the warrior’s scrutiny, and his heart responded by beating like a frightened bird’s heart. He could feel his life leaching out even faster, but he would not stop. He was a proud man. Unstoppable.  
  
Anders said nothing. He simply moved his head down further, his nose now brushing against stray strands of white hair. He took another deep breath. “Yes,” he murmured. “Closer. Not close enough.” The mage placed his hands on the front of the chair arms nearest him, his fingers almost brushing Fenris’. The elf seemed unwilling or unable to move, his eyes growing unfocused as the mage leaned in. Anders felt warmth radiating from the elf’s fingers, noticing only then that even his hair seemed to give off heat. “I’m afraid,” Anders clarified, “that you have something I need on you. And I intend to find it.”  
  
Anders moved his head further down again, not touching Fenris but maneuvering his nose to place it in between the elf’s shoulder and his ear. Fenris flinched back, annoyance writ over his face. Anders responded, not by moving his head or changing the angle of his face, but by looking straight into Fenris’ eyes from where he was. The look was a challenge of sorts. Fenris took a deep breath, staring back. He clearly was bothered by Anders’ behavior but was nevertheless determined to stay still and endure it. Fenris was as proud a man as Anders. He would not be moved. But perhaps he might yield all the same.  
  
Bowing his head gently in submission, Anders leaned over to place his nose back where it was before in relation to Fenris’ body. He took another long breath, this time letting it go in a shaky exhalation. Fenris sat pinned in place, hackles raised but refusing to move. It was getting to him too. Anders could tell. The elf’s nostrils flared. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair, even though he moved as if infinitely weary. Anders caught it then, the scent of Fenris’ arousal mixed with his own. It smelled… renegade spawn of Andraste… It smelled of lyrium and blood and musk and oil and leather and sex. It smelled of Fenris, and of what he needed. It smelled of blessed forgiveness for his sins and simultaneously like sin itself.  
  
Unable to resist breaking the spell, Anders had to open his mouth. “The nose… knows,” he laughed with half sarcasm and half genuine mirth, his voice like cold honey poured over steaming hot pancakes. He lifted his eyebrows to signal his profoundness, then waggled them suggestively. Fenris turned to look at him in open disregard, inadvertently bringing their mouths closer together. Anders leaned towards a kiss, one knee raising itself to the chair between Fenris’ legs to aid in his balance. Skittish, Fenris moved his head back to the side, craning it at the maximum angle away from Anders that the chair would allow.  
  
This action bore the long expanse of the elf’s neck to the light of the flickering flames. Anders looked at the fire dancing along the lines of lyrium with fascination for several heartbeats. Then, with deliberate slowness, he angled down and ran the flat of his tongue, half on a lyrium brand and half off, up to the base of Fenris’ ear. Fenris emitted the tiniest sound, nevertheless deep enough to thrum against Anders’ tongue in the crackling heat. The mage lifted his face away gently to smack his lips, tasting the lyrium residue of his long lick. He could smell the lyrium in the air, too, now that he could recognize it. He felt every nerve ending in his body light up with wild craving, distracting him from the elf’s elegant long ear.  
  
Anders released a husky whine in frustration. “I need…” He angled back down, openly searching with his nose. Fenris’ body was on fire, overheated with fever, and Anders shivered with his need for that heat. He paused upon reaching the middle of Fenris’ chest. He shifted sideways. His nose attempted to nudge Fenris’ arm away from his body. When the arm did not move, he grunted in annoyance and tried again.  
  
Fenris put on an affronted air. “Are you insane?” Anders looked up, pinning the elf with his eyes, his own eyes glinting. “Yes,” he said like a petulant child. “And you’re not?” He didn’t bother to apologize for his mad persistence. He just… waited. Fenris’ breathing quickened even as he closed his eyes in resignation. He moved his arm, in what might have seemed a casual motion without the painfully tense context.  
  
Anders’ tongue darted out, swiping along a lyrium brand on Fenris’ inner arm. The tongue travelled slowly up until it reached towards the elf’s armpit. Fenris flinched, clearly uncomfortable. Anders pulled back, apparently satisfied enough to analyze his findings. He licked his lips again. “No,” he said.  
  
Fenris ruffled visibly, placing his arm back in position and shuffling his shoulders. Anders was forced to pull back until the motions slowed. Voice snide, he countered, “Go on. Tell me to stop. I dare you.” He pushed his knee forward, pinning Fenris in place and demonstrating his awareness of the elf’s reaction. If Anders was going to die, then he was going to go down fighting for what he wanted, what he needed. It was the same damned thing the elf needed and wanted, and he’d be damned if he was turned away.  
  
Their eyes locked again. A minute passed. Fenris broke first. “We are both mad.” Anders tried to keep his smirk less than triumphant as his eyes dropped to Fenris’ chest, at the vertical level where his nose had left off. He glanced lower, briefly. Fenris startled as Anders dropped lower, kneeling obediently as if it were an old habit. “I remember this,” Fenris said. Of course, that was impossible. Anders looked up into Fenris’ narrow eyes glittering over a knowing smirk. A shift in his response.  Green eyes flashed with the same heat that radiated from his skin. It became a shared joke. Dark and rich. Mad and almost dead.  
  
Over the arm of the chair, Fenris gently slid two fingers over Anders’. Their hearts clenched together. Grunting, Anders slid down, angling to start anew from the ground up. His knee reluctantly abandoned its post in the chair. He sunk down to the floor, legs splayed to the side. Looking almost like a loyal dog at its owner’s feet. Anders paused to take an unhurried breath before tracing a lyrium line above Fenris’ toes toward his ankle. Fenris’ foot flinched, causing Anders to respond likewise. Undeterred, he placed his tongue back and followed the line up to the juncture where they met the cut of the elf’s trousers. Anders tasted his lips, analyzing dirt and sweat and wet grass, followed by a determination to move on.  
  
Anders’ nose followed the inside of Fenris’ leg. Even though his legs were fully enclosed, Anders’ nose twined along the way up as he followed one lyrium line flowing into another. Fenris held his breath as Anders reached his upper thighs. The mage didn’t hesitate to draw his face beside Fenris’ crotch, inhaling without shame. Grabbing hold of a slat between the chair legs, he curved his back inwards and followed down the bulge of Fenris’ outlined cock and to his balls, where his nose nudged in gently.   
  
“Andraste’s hairy thighs,” Anders sighed with a mix of ire and reverence. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” The mage pulled back, dizzy and elated, a grin on his face almost post-coital in its lazy intensity. There. What he needed. Perhaps he was going to live. If so, he was also quite possibly about to get high.  
  
“What?” Fenris closed his legs reflexively. He blushed, having been unaware until it was too late that he had grown achingly hard in response to all the attention. “You’re saying your nose led you… there.”  
  
“You want me to explain it to you,” Anders said, tilting his head sideways and then back. “I can’t. I just know.” He let his honest eyes speak for themselves, even though the silence stretched in the air.  
  
“Impossible,” Fenris said, shaking his head. The muscles in his thighs flexed in a fight or flight response.  
  
“Not impossible,” Anders reassured him with a hand on his thigh. “Deviant, perhaps. But I need this. You need this. I can tell you feel it too. But I’ll walk out that door if you look me in the eyes and tell me no.”  
  
Fenris’ hands gripped the chair until his gauntlets scraped deep into the wood. “You know I cannot.”  
  
“And I also know that’s as close as we’ll get to consent, you and I. So…” Anders moved his hands to the waistband of Fenris’ trousers. “Forgive me,” he whispered. His long fingers dug in, lifting the waistband up and over. Fenris lifted his hips and legs, looking to the floor. Anders smirked and continued shifting the trousers down, his mouth drawing forward inexorably to the damp spot on Fenris’ smallclothes.  
  
Anders’ flat tongue slid out to run across the patch of ambrosia. His eyes rolled immediately to the back of his head, his breath speeding. Fenris’ hips jutted forward as the tongue retreated, the low groan he held back in restraint forcing itself from his mouth at the lost contact. Anders looked up at him, shocked by the sound. If Fenris was disturbed or ashamed of this shared madness, Anders reveled in it.  
  
Pupils growing dark, Anders waited until Fenris returned his unwavering gaze. Then without breaking eye contact, Anders hooked his nimble fingers over the smallclothes and brought them down, slowly enough to avoid startling the elf. Once the smallclothes and trousers puddled together at Fenris’ feet, the elf gingerly removed one foot from the pile to spread his legs further, hunching his back to sit deeper in the chair. Anders finally dared a glance down, his breath catching in his throat at the sight.  
  
The spell between them was suddenly broken, reality impinging on the surreal shared moment. Anders lifted an eyebrow, his rich voice filled with mirth. “Really?” He mouth opened in awe, making him pant.  
  
“What?” Fenris started to close his legs again, abashed. Anders stopped him by placing a firm palm on each thigh, using the weight of his determined expression rather than physical force to make his point.  
  
“You look like… candy,” Anders said warmly. “I wish I was joking. But… Look at you. Maker.” The blonde released a huff by way of appreciation. They looked down together at Fenris’ cock, jutting proud and straight, unmarred skin the same dusky hue as the rest of his body, in startling contrast to the cherry head, somewhat larger around and perfectly formed. It was a typical elven cock, proportionate for its unusually tall body, remarkable only and entirely for its mouth-watering perfection.  
  
“I suppose it does,” Fenris admitted. He allowed Anders to gently push his legs apart fully. The blonde’s open smile on wide lips eased Fenris’ nervousness. Looking aside, he gave the tiniest smirk himself.  
  
Anders licked his lips several times before snaking his tongue out again, wrapping its wide flat surface around the base of Fenris’ cock and pulling it up slowly. His eyes rolled upwards again, lowering back afterwards to Fenris’ face, noting that the warrior held his breath in anticipation. Anders’ steady travel upwards slowed, and he lifted his tongue just as it approached the head. Fenris released his breath, confusion on his face. Anders blew warm air, watching with satisfaction as Fenris’ cock twitched.  
  
“You taste like cinnamon,” Anders remarked. “Has anyone told you that?”  
  
Fenris considered this a moment. “No,” he answered. He looked a bit puzzled by the description.  
  
“Hmm,” Anders mused. “Isabela was holding out on me. Probably for the best, really.”  
  
Fenris chuckled, then stopped abruptly with a cough. Talk of their lives in Kirkwall served as a harsh reminder of just how different things had become, and how quickly. Fenris frowned, eyes turning aside in thought. Anders had grown so used to being the sole subject of attention that he immediately plotted how to get it back. Isabela was a sweet girl, but she had nothing on Anders. He would prove it.  
  
He was grateful for the gift he was about to receive. He would give a gift of equal measure or die trying.


	15. Regalement

Anders looked up, still deeply determined. Looking down at the mage kneeling between his legs made Fenris’ cock twitch with arousal. Anders’ eyes widened, pleased at the reaction. Eyes glued to his prize, Anders dragged his tongue up slowly and with maximum friction to the spot where the cock’s head met the shaft. He lingered there, laving that spot, then continued up to collect a single clear pearl from the tip. He moaned shamelessly at the taste, vibrations teasing Fenris from the tip of Anders’ tongue.

Fenris was struck by how pleasant he found the sound, especially considering how often in the past he had found that same voice grating. Perhaps it had been so infuriating in part because it represented a terrible waste of an otherwise pleasurable instrument. Fenris found himself wondering what other sounds he would coax out if this persisted. As his imagination reeled, Anders’ lips reverently enclosed the head of Fenris’ cock as he licked and nursed, hoping for more. Eventually he was rewarded. Fenris moaned just before Anders’ rich hum echoed back at the taste. Anders released the cock from his lips with a slurp. Fenris began to understand the mage’s devilish grin when recalling his past exploits.

“Sweet, and…” Anders ran his tongue around his mouth and over his lips, “a hint of bitter from the lyrium. Like… chocolate. Sort of.” Anders looked aside, blushing. He brought a hand up to rub at his own stubble thoughtfully. Fenris tilted his head, finding irony at such a reaction from someone who claimed so much sexual experience. The warrior reached out with a gauntlet clad hand and extended one finger to tilt Anders’ chin back to face him. Anders grinned as the blush dissipated. “You’re in for it now, elf.”

“Am I?” Fenris’ honest laugh turned into a cough. He had grown increasingly fevered, prompting his stop in the wood cabin in the first place. Unable to motivate himself to strip free from his armor, he had lit the fire and pulled the chair into the corner hoping to banish the clammy remnants of rain on his skin. He later regretted the decision, finding himself so exhausted and overheated that he had no desire to move from the chair when Anders arrived. In another reversal, he now found himself glad that the fire lit Anders’ activities, that his hair was drying from brownish wet back to sparkling strawberry blond.

Anders appeared to notice Fenris’ unhealthy heat, his palms lifting from the elf’s thighs even while his fingertips dug in just short of the nails. Fenris looked to the fire, his eyes threatening to get lost in it until they closed of their own accord. He slumped into the chair a bit, caught between a wave of nausea and a sharp burst of pleasure. Anders was relentless, as if he were sucking poison from an open wound. His fingers danced along sensitive inner thighs while he tongue stroked devilishly to match his sucking. He released his mouth with a pop again as Fenris’ eyes wandered back from the fire to Anders’ face.

“I was going to make this quick and easy,” Anders said. “But, as a general rule, chocolate should be savored.” Fenris’ veneer of superiority slipped for a moment before reasserting itself with a dark scowl. The elf struggled to put his elbows onto the chair arms, to leverage his weight on them. His limbs were uncoordinated, his eyes fogged and unfocused. Eyes lidded, the elf gave in with a resigned slump.

Anders’ pupils were now completely blown wide. Lips curling into a twitching snarl, he hovered over Fenris’ cock, then snaked his tongue out at the last minute before descending lower. He lapped at the head first, licking teasingly across from a dozen different directions, as if curling his tongue in a frequent come hither motion so would bring the cock further toward his mouth. Fenris exhaled in tremors, his hips lifting of their own accord off the chair, an unthinking reaction despite his lack of energy. Anders obligingly slid his lips slowly down to encompass a little more than half the elf’s shaft. He stopped when the head hit the back of his throat. Then, closing his eyes in bliss, he swallowed. Fenris mewled despite his desire to maintain his composure. Anders closed his eyes at this, appearing to drink in the vibrations.

They took a beat there, adjusting to this strange new reality where Anders was by all appearances perfectly content with Fenris’ cock shoved down his throat. As Anders raised and lowered his mouth in deliciously slow repetitions, Fenris considered the situation, shifting his view so that his second eye could take in Anders’ face. He looked down at the blonde as if seeing him for the first time. Anders unencumbered by a Fadeborn passenger was a mercurial, unpredictable, sensual creature. He could be providing a perfunctory service, and this would suffice. But he was determined to do just the opposite.

Still, Anders seemed comfortable enough using his sexuality for personal gain. This baffled Fenris. For the longest time after receiving his lyrium brands, Fenris’ sexuality had not been his own. It was taken or lay idle solely at the wish of his master Danarius. It had taken years after his flight to Kirkwall to reclaim his body’s pleasures for himself. He now counted his consent his most valued possession. Though he had regained the purely physical, he was keenly aware that he lacked social context others took for granted.

Fenris worried that despite Anders’ show, it was ultimately an act designed to win Fenris’ consent. Based on his experiences in Tevinter, Fenris thought it unlikely that a mage could desire him as anything more than a second rate object, a consolation prize to be accepted only when the true object of one’s affections was unavailable. If Anders acted out of necessity and without desire, how would Fenris know? The last thing he wanted was for ignorance to lead him to commit a sexual crime without true consent. Worse, Fenris realized that this same mage might later mock him for allowing this unlikely indiscretion.

Still, what was it that Vengeance had told him? “YOU WOULD HAVE NO FEAR IF YOU SAW YOURSELF AS ANDERS SEES YOU.” Had he, in fact, seen himself as Anders saw him? Fenris recalled, could never forget, the stream of visions shoved into his mind by Vengeance’s hand. Some had seemed almost familiar, like recalling a fantasy long forgotten, others surreal and unexpected. It was in the latter that Fenris saw a version of himself so perfectly appealing as to seem implausible. When Anders looked at him, was that what he saw? Or was that flattery slotted in by Vengeance to further sweeten his offer of joining?

Perhaps it was neither. Some of those visions felt pulled from his own mind, yet Vengeance had said it himself - “I WOULD NOT SAY I KNOW YOUR HEART.” No, it was more complicated than that. Just a moment ago, Fenris had been struck by a strong sense of déjà vu. He had seen it before, everything from Anders leaning on the back of his chair to his nose travelling down his body. He should have been caught by surprise when the mage tried to kiss him, but he had half expected it. Fenris couldn’t be shocked at where Anders nose led him. He already knew where it would go. When he gave Anders a knowing smirk, it was because this asymmetrical knowledge left him feeling reassuringly in control.

If Fenris was honest with himself, it was a tremendous turn-on, this heady suspicion that he knew in advance so many incredibly private things that Anders had no access to. It was ironic, too. If Fenris had been as thoroughly seduced as Vengeance intended, he would not be here now, repeating the vision. It was interesting that the details were not exactly the same, the order of events jumbled. Fenris gathered that what he had seen was a vision from one possible future, for which many other possibilities must also exist. He was a bit relieved to hear it, considering that he hoped to avoid the last vision altogether.

The last thing he wanted was to wear the costume of a body slave with Anders dressed as a magister. If it were the truth of their future situation, he would rather die than allow it. Nor was it a game Fenris could imagine ever consenting to play, even in jest. It hit far too close to home. He did not care that the unnaturally beautiful version of him in the vision seemed happy. He himself would rather be miserable.

Yet something else Vengeance had said gave him some small pause. “YOU ARE BOTH CORRECT.” He had been referring to Anders’ staunch support of mage freedom and Fenris’ certainty that said freedom would only create a society of slaves similar to Tevinter. Clearly, Vengeance maintained a third party perception where both facts could exist simultaneously, with a single perfect solution in clear view.

If only such a thing were possible. Neither Kirkwall nor Tevinter lent themselves to such nuance, however. Vengeance had claimed to see a scenario where Anders and Fenris would generally agree. Considering his insights into Anders’ mind, it’s possible the demon had inside knowledge on the matter. Then again, considering how little Anders knew Vengeance in retrospect, the demon could have been bluffing for all Fenris knew. Most likely, Vengeance intended to violate one or both of their wills in order to create the illusion of a shared opinion. Yes, he would have expected further violations after joining.

Fenris remembered something he had told Vengeance earlier that same day. He was so angry at the visions laid into his mind, unasked for, undesired by either of them. He had said, “You violate us both.”

This was the crux of things, wasn’t it? Fenris didn’t understand the underlying mechanism, but he could surmise the principles. Anders had spent a decade with Justice sharing his mind and body. Upon its departure, the demon had left him with an infernal hole. When attempting to join with Fenris, the same demon had imparted some toxic residue. So as Anders’s life force leaked slowly from his body, Fenris body grew sick and overheated. Somehow the two of them were putting the pieces together, the unwanted intrusion inside Fenris being delivered to fill the aching physical emptiness in Anders.

But why must the transference occur through such blatantly sexual means? Fenris had his suspicions about that too. Vengeance had seduced him. If he had left something behind, well, where would it have gone? Considering the situation, Fenris should count himself fortunate that he wasn’t obliged to let the mage fuck him. He wasn’t sure he could take that again, even were death the only other option. Still, Vengeance got to him through sex, so his remnant would leave likewise. It made a sick kind of sense.

All these thoughts swirled through his mind in a matter of mere seconds. Even so, Anders noticed the lack of attention. The stubborn blonde was determined to draw the elf’s focus back to the matter at hand. The mage constricted the throat, humming while a tongue lapped perfectly up over the head. It was enough to shatter Fenris’ train of thought. Anders smiled with his eyes as Fenris’ gaze met his own. Fenris allowed himself to sheepishly admit that, all theories aside, he was enjoying himself. A little.

But this was no time for careful analysis, surely. Fenris cemented his consent with his usual practical flair. He removed a foot from the pile of his clothes still resting at his feet. He left just his big toe hooked around the waistband of the trousers. With perfect agility he flicked his foot, tossing the trousers and smalls together to a spot in the corner of the room. Anders purred his approval. As he removed his mouth temporarily to speak, a thumb found that dexterous foot’s insole and dug in to massage it.

“Shirt too,” Anders requested. He remembered his manners. “Please.” Shaking his head with a reticent grin, Fenris removed his armor and tunic and threw them into the pile of clothes. Anders’ eyes traveled over the muscles and brands on Fenris’ chest. He had seen scattered portions before, Fenris knew, from the many times he had healed wounds from their adventures together. Anders had never seen the full effect, the way the twisting lines were designed to complement the overall architecture of his elven body. His response was precious. Eyes travelling up and down, the blond muttered, “Fuck me.” 

Fenris laughed, humor tinged with mockery, his muscles flexing to Anders’ wide eyed delight. “If you don’t get back to work,” Fenris teased him, “I may have to.” A feral grin on his face, he curled his leg around Anders’ head and pushed it forward, his ankle hooking around the back of the blonde’s head.

Anders looked down at the now spit shined cock before him. “And risk spoiling my dessert? No thank you.” He descended back onto the delectable cock, closing his eyes to revel in the sensations of touch and taste and sloppy sound. He attempted to take a bit more down his throat with each long stroke down, pushing his tongue forward along the underside for the upswing. He learned that a gentle tongue wiggle on the way up earned him a twitch or a moan most times, so he added it to his relentless routine.

Anders could feel Fenris’ foot at the back of his head. At first he expected it to guide his pace, but the motions were too random and uncoordinated to communicate anything of worth. In curiosity, he stopped briefly with just the head of Fenris’ cock in his mouth, laving it with his tongue while keeping it encased in warm heat. Fenris took the pause to concentrate on his foot, finally pulling his toes back with a grunt of approval. Anders’ hair fell around the sides of his face, the leather tie having been removed.

Anders’ eyebrows arched up, impressed. Fenris leaned back, pulling his foot forward until the leather tie dangled in front of one of Anders’ eyes. Fenris rubbed his toes together until the tie dropped free. Settling back comfortably into his chair, Fenris placed his foot back around Anders, this time leaning the weight of it on the mage’s broad shoulders. A hand snaked forward to feel the free strands of hair.

“Continue,” Fenris commanded darkly. Anders couldn’t suppress a needy whine at Fenris’ dominant tone. He obediently sunk his mouth back down on Fenris’ cock, putting his full concentration into his steady ministrations, into building a slow rhythm. Though he was aware of it, he paid little attention to the fingers rifling through his hair, pulling it out of place repeatedly only to smooth it back into position again. He was therefore surprised when he looked up to gauge Fenris’ reactions only to find that the elf’s concentration was on his hair, reveling in the way it caught the flickering light of the stoked fire. The warrior’s pupils were clouded and dark with lust, his breathing steady, his posture patient and calm.

Anders released a tiny huff of a laugh at the warrior’s obsession with his hair. This drew Fenris’ gaze to his, the elf’s fingers pausing as if unsure whether to admit the weakness. Smiling appreciatively around the cock in his mouth, Anders brought a hand up to curl it around Fenris’ fingers, urging him on. Fenris carded his fingers deep into Anders’ hair on one side. At Anders’ continued urging, the elf grabbed a handful of hair and pulled. Anders’ mouth opened wide, his tongue the only part of his mouth still in contact with Fenris’ cock, as he moaned a long, honey note that trailed slowly into a whimper.

Fenris was not immune to the vibrations of sound. Pupils black and wide, he pulled Anders’ hair again while pushing his head down with the back of his foot. Moaning again, Anders let himself be guided down further, further, further. He suppressed his gag reflex after a single start, then continued doggedly down despite Fenris’ foot no longer applying pressure to urge him on. Finally his lips nestled in the dark shiny straight hairs below. Holding his breath, he looked up at Fenris, who appeared frozen in mixed consternation and amazement at the unexpected feat of sexual prowess. After a moment gathering his composure, the warrior yanked Anders’ head up by the hair until the cock dropped free with a pop.

“Are you alright?” He looked genuinely concerned, as if he expected Anders to faint or choke. A trail of saliva connected Fenris to Anders’ bottom lip, forcing the mage to lick at his lips before speaking.

“I’m fine,” Anders reassured, breathing fast, “long as you let me breathe now and then.” Fenris hummed assent before pushing the mage forward again. He decided to let Anders have all the fun he wanted.


	16. Singularity

As Anders’ breathing slowly returned to normal, he wrapped his hand around Fenris’ cock and stroked it appreciatively. He tilted his head back to swallow, then smiled on seeing Fenris staring at his Adam’s apple. Anders began to wonder to what extent Fenris’ disgust at him over the years had been a strategic bluff. Testing, he took one of the elf’s gauntleted hands and laid a fingertip on his neck’s pulse point. Fenris shifted so that the pad of his finger traced a line down Anders’ neck and back up, over the Adam’s apple, rubbing crossways over rough stubble to the mage’s lips. Anders gave it a kiss with a gentle smirk.

“Again?” Anders asked innocently. Tilting his head, he combined a coquettish smile with a wink.

“Yes,” Fenris agreed. His second word made it an order. “Again.” The warrior did not force the issue this time. He simply waited as Anders resettled comfortably between his legs. After taking a few deep breaths, Anders replaced his hand with his mouth again, taking it all the way down with a little effort. He hummed at his success, swallowing, and Fenris’ hips canted in an automatic response. Anders began a steady rhythm, his neck stretching to accept the repeated intrusion with barely visible strain.

Anders was satisfied to see that the elf was no longer losing himself in thought, his eyes no longer wandering to the fire, his posture no longer slumped in the chair. Indeed, he had Fenris’ rapt attention. This made all the difference, the elf seeming to fall willingly into Anders’ observant and knowing eyes. All too soon, the elf was breathing hard, his hands scrabbling at Anders’ hair. Then the hands were lifted away again, only to run through the elf’s own hair as he released a grunt of muffled frustration.

“I can’t…” It was unclear what Fenris was trying to communicate. Anders drew back, breathed out through his nose and back in, then lowered himself again. Fenris struggled again. “I can’t…” The elf’s leg muscles began to shake. This time, when Anders lifted back, he looked up. Fenris was gripping the chair arms, the muscles in his arms stretched taught. Anders could feel the muscles straining in Fenris’ legs and hips as well. Hoping he understood, Anders placed his hands gently behind Fenris’ hips and pulled them towards him. Fenris groaned as his body snapped forward, burying himself in Anders’ mouth.

Anders gave an encouraging moan, happy to let Fenris set the pace for him. Fenris’ hips began to move of their own accord. Slowly at first. Before long, he was openly fucking Anders’ mouth hard and deep. Anders was sucking and moaning, breathing when he could, holding onto the chair for dear life. Fenris was unexpectedly intense, almost animalistic in the throes of his passion. The straining muscles on such a lithe figure and the emotion hidden behind that stoic facade were slowly setting Anders’ libido on fire.

Hastily, Anders’ hands dropped to the laces at his trousers. His cock was weeping and aching, and he wasn’t sure he could take the pressure much longer. He loosened his trousers with nimble fingers, his mouth growing less coordinated as he concentrated on untying the bow and loosening the strings. It was the lack of coordination that drew Fenris’ attention. With a suddenness that left Anders whining like a dog, Fenris grabbed his shoulders to force him still and leaned over so he could look down at Anders’ hands. By then, Anders’ fingers were wrapped around his cock, attempting to pull his erection free.

“No,” Fenris warned as if he spoke to a misbehaving pet. “Remove your hand. I do not wish to see.” Not that Anders had actually considered it before, but he supposed his own pleasure was not a mandatory part of their awkward agreement. Then again, neither was the extent of Anders’ attentions to Fenris.

“Then don’t look,” Anders responded. When Fenris narrowed his eyes, Anders offered up an expression that begged for mercy without words, a transparent attempt to persuade Fenris to allow the forbidden. The sweet pout was belied by Anders’ labored breathing, his giant pleading eyes by his blown out pupils.

“No,” Fenris reaffirmed. “You will respect my limits.” The warrior pulled the blonde’s head back by his hair in warning, ironically making Anders’ cock twitch. Anders noted that the hairs were standing up on Fenris’ arm, his eyebrows fraught with worry. Perhaps Fenris had reasons from his past that made him want reassurance that Anders would keep his cock in his pants, literally. Anders could sympathize, but he could not agree. Rebellious to a fault, Anders angled his head to increase the pull on his hair.

“I’ll come anyway,” Anders warned defiantly, panting angrily with his head back and his mouth open. He needed to test this new limit he’d been presented with, feel the breadth of it and measure its weight.

“Fine,” Fenris agreed. “If you wish to soil your smalls out of my sight, it is between you and your hand.” He released the mage’s hair just as suddenly, letting the head fall forward. With an almost but not quite apologetic grunt, the elf caressed strands of wayward hair from Anders’ face into their proper place.

Anders smirked. “What makes you think I’ll need my hand?” To demonstrate, he removed his hand and waggled his fingers at Fenris. Taking his bottom lip between his teeth, Anders tilted his hips forward and back, rubbing his hard cock against the still somewhat confining laces of his trousers. He sighed, eyes lidded with satisfaction. Fenris’ nostrils flared, catching the aroma of Anders’ excitement even through two layers of cloth. He shook his head in resignation, whispering words of warning under his breath.

“Understand this, mage,” Fenris said, throwing the word like an epithet. “You will give me exactly what I want…” he paused for effect “exactly how I want it. Understand?” Anders scowled. To his own surprise, he found himself growling back. Even as he did, he realized with a start that Fenris was giving Anders exactly what he asked for. If he felt a need to confirm Anders’ reciprocation, it was just a bid for control.

Sensing hesitation, Fenris darken his voice. “Do you understand, Anders?” The way the blonde’s name curled from Fenris’ lips made Anders shiver. He gave up a defeated whimper, his cock throbbing. If he was honest, this had happened on the battlefield before. Fenris ordered, and Anders just… obeyed. Sometimes he berated himself for it afterwards. But the next time Fenris barked a command, he did it again. Worse, when the elf gave him a nod of acknowledgment for it, Anders struggled not to preen.

“Proceed,” Fenris demanded. “Now.” Anders closed his eyes, the deep voiced order travelling straight to his groin. Drifting forward, his eyes drawn to the cock as steadily as his mouth would follow, Anders realized he had descended into a subterranean world where nothing existed outside this small wood cabin. He was free, if only for a moment, from his past misdeeds and his likely horrific future. He looked up at Fenris, studying his face as his mouth closed over that perfect cock again like a benediction. He owed Fenris a debt of gratitude for this. There would likely be no future opportunity to repay him.

Fenris was grinding his teeth, torn between his lust and his disgust at Anders’ own needs. Good. Anders had always preferred a challenge. The harder, the better. And Fenris was hard. Very, very hard. Anders felt his cock jump in his trousers and wondered how little stimulation he himself would require to come.

Just before his outstretched tongue hit home, Anders switched tactics and sucked one of Fenris’ hairless balls into his mouth. He ran his tongue around it, fascinated at variations in taste from the tension and sweat. The skin pulled inwards, creating little wrinkles for him to follow and smooth. He moved to the other ball, sucking it as well, running his tongue between them and back up, up, up until the tip of his tongue was poised against the slit of Fenris’ cock. He moaned as he dipped in to find another sweet drop of desire, the taste of it leaving him hungry for more. His lips closed over the cock as his hand took its former place cradling Fenris’ balls. He gave them a gentle tug before rolling them in his fingers.

His mouth set a steady pace again, dropping just far enough down to be uncomfortable. He was openly slobbering now, genuinely hungry and incredibly turned on, moaning in time with his mouth’s vertical rhythm. Fenris began moaning with him, an exquisite response that deepened the whole experience.

After a last gentle squeeze around both Fenris’ balls, brought together close to his body, Anders let his long fingers follow a meandering trail up to the base of Fenris’ cock. He wrapped three fingers reverently around the widening cock, gathering his saliva to serve as lubricant. His hands met his lips, and he eased off his throat enough to make room for three fingers, then for all five. He squeezed gently.

Fenris moved his foot down strategically to place his leg against Anders’ needy erection. Anders’ body shuddered in response, tongue twitching on the elf’s trembling cock. Anders found himself impressed that Fenris, when given control, used his discretion to give back. They moaned together as Anders rubbed himself slowly along Fenris’ calf. He hoped Fenris could feel him twitching, expanding, hot. As if answering that hope, Fenris spoke. “Tell me,” he rumbled in a low voice. “Tell me what you want.”

Anders refused to lift his mouth entirely to speak, leaving the head in, choosing his words carefully so he could speak without using his teeth. “Let me come,” he said. He made it the most appealing request he could, fellating with the first word, humming the other two. He finished with an unplanned whimper. As he waited for the answer, he recalled with a thrill that he had once called Fenris a wild dog. While he was indeed as wild as one, it was Fenris who sat on the chair like an idle master while Anders rutted against his leg like a lap dog. If his health did not recover, Anders might die happy at Fenris’ feet this day.

The elf laughed a rich dark laugh that filled the room. “No,” he said. “Tell me what you need.” Anders moaned. He knew exactly what the blasted elf meant. He felt the pain in his heart pulling on him, pulling him closer to Fenris’ leg, forcing his mouth to close around his cock and suck. For a moment, he forgot to answer. He sucked until the cock widened again, until the elf grunted as a way to remind him to speak as commanded. Finally, Anders’ mouth eased back entirely and the words flew out without thought.

“You,” Anders said with wide eyes. “I need you to come. Give it to me. All of it. Make me whole. I need…” Anders sought inspiration, but ended up with the simple, damning truth. “I want to live. And I… need this. Need you. Now.” He was stroking encouragingly with his hand, letting his eyes do the begging for him. Was this what rock bottom looked like, begging for sex from someone who pitied you too much to hate you? Because this was what he was doing. Giving Fenris control over his life or death. Fenris sat up a little straighter in the chair, as if Anders’ willing debasement raised his status up by equal measure.

Maybe it did, for a magister’s former slave to hold ultimate power over a mage who spoke for all mages.

Something in Anders’ mind snapped as Fenris hummed in approval. He felt a determination rise inside him like a rolling tide of ocean water. He would make Fenris come. He would make him scream out with pleasure. He would taste the mana this perfect body promised, and with it he would be healed. Covering his lips ever so carefully with his teeth, he leaned in and set a brutal pace, his hand following his lips in a shared rhythm. He varied the speed several times until he found the one that left Fenris panting, his leg muscles flexing with each stroke. He grew generous with his tongue, started moaning with abandon. He knew it was coming, and soon. His expectation was confirmed when Fenris reached forward to grasp Anders’ neck with his palm. With his other hand, he reached into his hair and pulled a scream of mixed pleasure and pain from Anders’ throat, the heady vibrations prompting Fenris’ mouth to hang open.

Fenris’ cock expanded, the width increasing enough to shock Anders. In part because he was unwilling to change his angle or pace, Anders’ jaw was forced wide to accommodate the new girth. He felt veins pulsing angrily as his tongue lashed over them. His head was spinning from a lack of oxygen. Fenris’ low pitched moans and cantering hips displayed his own intoxication on top of his shouted expectation of triumph. Anders was drunk, drowning, pushed along a swollen wave. He would not be carried blissfully to rolling sands. He would be thrown bodily to the shore and praise the gods for all his broken bones.

He could taste it, just barely. Maker, but it was everything he had hoped for and more. It was salvation in liquid form, salty and bitter and slightly sweet with a hint of spice, an impossible taste from an impossible individual. Anders sucked, applying his lips like a vise. Fenris released a moan that grew in volume over time, his thighs quivering wildly. The sense of triumph combined with the lack of oxygen almost made Anders want to faint. But he held on. He thought it must be a symptom of overexertion when his sight behind closed eyes grew brighter and brighter. Then Fenris let out a surprised shout. Anders opened his eyes to see the elf glowing. Not his brands. His entire body. Like a distant star. He was gorgeous and awe inspiring, even to Anders, himself long accustomed to glowing on occasion.

Anders imagined that he must be an inky blot, still in his feathered coat, his eyes black with lust when the light should have forced his pupils into thin points. He was soaking up the light, a moth to Fenris’ flame, helpless as the warrior grabbed the long hand inching toward half open trousers and yanked it up to cover a bare chest. The elf radiated warmth, the brands unexpectedly cooler than the flesh. Anders felt forced to swallow, though his throat could barely manage it, and meanwhile his other hand still moved in that same unstoppable rhythm. Anders found his hand at a place where lyrium lines met and parted again. He spread his fingers, his thumb drawn fumbling to the place over the elf’s thudding heart.

Anders watched in shock as the elf came with an uncensored husky shout, his face pained yet beatific in the final moment of pleasure before light rendered his figure as a hazy silhouette. Before Anders could commit the sight to memory, the rush of liquid came to him, heady and sweet, extinguishing all thought. Something in his heart squeezed, then flung open, his breath released without awareness. Anders’ cock pulsed helplessly in his trousers, trapped against Fenris’ leg, his body too overwhelmed to move other than involuntary response. He struggled to swallow all that spilled forth, regretting that he could not savor the first drops without risking the loss of so many others. He felt satiated for the first time in ages.

Anders did not even notice when his own cock stopped pulsing. He paid the sticky mess in his trousers no heed. His mind centered on the one person with his full attention. He had been so damnably sure that his attraction to Fenris was a disturbing side effect of his joining with Justice. Only now, as his mouth persisted in caressing the stilling cock after its gaping slit closed in evidence of completion, could he admit the truth to himself. Fenris was sex incarnate. Not to Justice. To him, Anders. It had nothing to do with that incredible show of glowing triumph. The person inside the singularity was himself a miracle, Anders admitted as he cleaned the cock thoroughly with his tongue, willing the moment to last longer. The warrior shook with overstimulation but did not stop him, seemed to not want to stop, even now.

Fenris was everything Anders wanted and could never have. It had taken a freak of nature to gain his attention. No, worse. It took an unprecedented supernatural accident. Their eyes locked for an instant that lasted an age, then Fenris’ gaze shifted aside, revealing that he was unsure how to process their new situation. Anders found this reaction intensely poignant. It told him instantly where he stood. He tried not to show his disappointment as he finally and reluctantly let go and backed slowly away.

Anders was damned twice over, then. After the events in Kirkwall, his chance with Fenris was approximately zero. If the Maker were anything more than an absent parent, Anders would say he had granted this one blissful encounter only to rub Anders’ face in the inevitability of his future misery. There would be nothing in all Thedas to match this damnable elf. He would be a fool to seek its like. Neither could he return to the hermit-like existence of his paired life with Justice. He was doomed now. He would be like a ghost haunting his own sexuality in vain, searching for a life it could no longer have.

Fenris remained slumped in the chair, eyes closed peacefully in lazy exhaustion. His spent cock lay limply along his upper thigh. Still slick, its length had shrunk only a little from its earlier size. Anders pulled back, licking his shaking fingers, rubbing the back of his hand against the corners of his mouth and licking that too, desperate for any last molecule. He finally gave up with a regretful sigh and sat back on his hands. Shaking his head at himself, he laced his trousers back and straightened his coat. Fenris showed no signs of moving, looking utterly relaxed. Anders found himself envying the warrior’s easy conscience.

Feeling stronger, Anders stood up unsteadily. Closing his eyes and willing his magic to pour forth, he felt relief at being able to cast a gentle healing spell while keeping his panacea aura activated. Fenris opened his eyes at this, just barely, keeping them mostly lidded. Anders put a hand to his chest, willing his fingers to stop shaking. Yes. The leakage of blood had stopped. Or at least, his body was no longer weakening. Perhaps he was simply healing at the same rate he was losing blood now. But he retained a disquieting feeling that a hole remained behind. He was hollow. A hollow man. Hollowed out. Empty. Still, he was a hollowed out man who was going to live. An improvement he owed to Fenris.

“Thank you,” Anders whispered. Fenris simply opened and closed his eyes again. Taking a deep breath, Anders gathered his staff from the corner, checking the window. The rain had stopped, unnoticed by either of them. The longer Anders waited, the more likely it was that another group of Templars would come. Anders glanced at Fenris for the briefest of moments, pragmatically wondering if he might seek protection from the warrior’s strength. He shook his head ruefully. He knew where they stood. Where they would always stand. Apart. For all that life had drawn them together, it also pushed him away now.

Saying nothing more, Anders ducked out the undersized door. He expected that would be the end of it. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. The exchange was completed. There was nothing to say.

So why did the hollow place in his heart throb when he spared a glance back as the door closed?

Fenris, for his part, congratulated himself for hiding his open staring behind heavily lidded eyes. Anders on his way out the door looked as lost as Fenris felt. Worse, with his magic intact, he was as much a threat to others as ever, if not more so. Fenris would follow him. He would follow just as soon as he…

It was the last thing Fenris thought before he drifted to sleep in the chair before the warm fire. When he awoke hours later to smoldering embers, he would feel far less nauseous and fevered. His skin’s luster would have returned to normal, the metallic reflectiveness having passed. He would retain his ability to detect Anders’ direction and distance. Taking this as a sign, he would set off to follow the mage anew.

When reflecting on this day, Fenris would be struck by the sense that his world had been forced open. He had grown accustomed to a set of assumptions in Tevinter. Kirkwall only reinforced them. Anders argued passionately against many of these assumptions. Arguing back strengthened Fenris’ resolve. This was the day Fenris’ assumptions began to change. Many things Anders said came back to haunt Fenris this day. He almost lost himself by failing to adapt. Things he had considered irrelevant began to matter.

For Anders, this was the day the world started closing in on him. With Justice, he had grown accustomed to thinking in terms of abstract morality. Contrary thoughts were mere distractions. His ability to empathize withdrew along with his ability to experience honest emotional responses. Without Justice, he became a lonely ball of sensation, riddled by blackouts. Then his entire universe narrowed itself to a single person and an event that stood outside time and space. The rest started mattering a little less.

As one world grew and the other shrank, there was room to meet in the middle. Two universes collided. They would vie for dominance and implode together, or they would birth a new universe together.

Or both. Only time would tell.

Speaking of time, they both gained several precious days of life in the little wood cabin. They would gain more later, though it would not be easy. Someday, they would come to understand their predicament.

Meanwhile, deep in the Fade, one being understood all too well. Vengeance would reflect on what he knew. It would occur to him that he, too, could follow his heart. Or rather the hearts he had touched. He would stalk them in their dreams. On this night, Fenris slept without dreaming. Anders never slept at all. 

Still, Vengeance found a way to stalk their shadows. Sebastian made it to Starkhaven too late to avoid lasting scars from his burns. He found adequate time to secure a comfortable bed that night. He dreamt of vengeance, of a determined black knight leading him to Anders. He awoke in very good spirits indeed.

So much happened in a single day. It would take a year to detail all the consequences to follow.


	17. Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to take a moment to thank all those who followed my Tumblr and provided answers to my author’s questions, one of which inspired this last chapter. You know who you are, and I hope you’ve enjoyed seeing your views incorporated. Special thanks go to cypheroftyr and maddona, who inspired chapters with conversations that went beyond anything I could have asked for.
> 
> I plan to continue this plot series, though I may skip around the timeline before settling back where this story left off. As plans solidify, I will post news and more questions to my Tumblr account.
> 
> If you have enjoyed this story, go forth and spread the word. If you're not sure what to think, feel free to leave questions. If this story saddened you, try reading my other stories. They’re far less depressing. :-)

A path of sorrow and destruction followed Anders that fateful day, from the incinerated Kirkwall Chantry along the path trodden black to the smaller but equally decimated Chantry in Wildhaven.

The city of Wildhaven remained largely unchanged in the immediate aftermath, though Andrastian services were held in a barn for several months while a new Chantry was built on the other side of town. The old Chantry’s charred husk was left untouched, serving as a permanent memorial and historical monument. A single pew remained untouched. When a Seeker visited almost a year later, she found the remains of a traveler’s backpack underneath, including a sturdy pickaxe with “Smith” stamped upon it.

In time, believers in Anders’ cause came to visit the Chantry’s burnt ruins. It became the first stop in a popular pilgrimage for many who sought enlightenment or understanding. The marker beside the old Chantry told a story in verse of a mage prophet who condemned the Andrastian church to suffer for its sins against the bearers of His greatest gift. A similar marker beside a bridge over a river invited the pilgrim to reflect. How would their life be different were they a mage before the great mage rebellion?

The small clearing beside the path was eventually discovered, the bodies of two and a quarter Templars found dismembered and mutilated. Their remains were gathered and burned in a pyre built hastily in the clearing. Few attended the funeral, as the chaos in Kirkwall necessitated a quick and practical response. Years later, a third marker suggested the supplicant consider the deeds of Kirkwall’s Templars.

After Anders fled, Kirkwall descended into chaos, victory serving as cold comfort to the mages when the few who survived the Gallows found they were no longer welcome in the city. They left in small groups, some seeking to hide, others to further their newfound cause. The Templars counted themselves too few in number to restore order. The city guard became the de facto ruling force, Aveline at the helm. The Champion disappeared soon after order was restored. Hawke’s companions scattered far and wide.

Some months after the rebellion, a sudden cave collapse killed all the miners at the Bone Pit, including the supervisors visiting for a routine inspection. Rumors arose that one of the Divine’s Seekers had uncovered evidence that Anders had received assistance at the mine while fleeing Kirkwall. Sole ownership of the mine fell to an Orlesian merchant by divine decree. The merchant Hubert henceforth paid an annual insurance tax to the Divine. The proceeds went towards the rebuilding effort. Hubert balanced his books on the backs of the Fereldan miners, whose wages were reduced by almost half.

The fourth station became the Bone Pit, or rather the nearby road overlooking the drop where elven slaves were once pushed to their deaths. The marker pointed out that the barbaric practice served as a warning to any would-be rebels, a warning that only served to inflame tensions further. The plights of elven slaves and mages were compared, the pilgrimage’s first reference to the exalted former slave portrayed as being forever in the mage prophet’s close company. Some decade after Kirkwall fell, the marker was forcibly pulled from the ground during a miner uprising. It was used to brain the Orlesian merchant to death. Wearing its blood stain as a mark of honor, it was thrust back into hallowed ground.

The final station stood in Kirkwall. Its location was the occasion for frequent political strife while it was located tentatively in the courtyard outside the former Chantry’s home. The marker suggested that pilgrims meditate to develop compassion for the victims on both sides of the war and their families and friends. It reminded that the exalted former slave and the mage prophet stood originally on opposite sides before joining as one. Survivors of Kirkwall’s fall routinely picked fights with unwary devout pilgrims. The infighting stopped only when Andrastian clergy were stationed nearby in a silent watch.

Still stubbornly in the same spot, the Kirkwall Chantry was rebuilt in record time in lavish style and at great expense as a point of pride per the decree of the great Divine Justinia. In order to reduce tensions within the city after the new Chantry was built, the last station was moved to the origin of the prophet’s epic story, his former free clinic. A new mage clinic arose in nearby Darktown, beneficiary to the charity of wide eyed believers of the cause and testament to the increasing strength of pilgrimage donations.

The clinic’s former home became a sacred place, built first with flowers, copies of a famed manifesto, bottles of red wine, ornate swords, simple staffs, and other gifts of respect. Later, tradition dictated that pilgrims carry a brick as they walked the path as a symbol of their willingness to shoulder the burden of securing true universal freedom. Once the clinic was rebuilt brick upon brick, the ceiling was knocked down to survey the crawlspace above and allow more room for building. So it went until the bricks reached from Darktown to the sun, crudely built but arguably taller than the new Andrastian Chantry.

Each day at noon, the glimmer from the stained glass windows facing the shore met with a single beam of light from the domed glass above to lend an ethereal aura to a crude wooden bench stained with blood and worn with age. There the famed apostate healer had saved what was rumored to be hundreds of lives, alleviating the pain and suffering of those too poor to help themselves. Outside the annual pilgrimage festivities, city dwellers could be seen on benches nearby arguing whether the healer saved more than he was responsible for killing. A tavern was opened nearby to service the regular visitors, followed by shops and eventually homes for the shop keepers and employees. Thanks to their patronage, a system of vents was installed to carry the choke damp fumes safely out of the city walls.

As Darktown improved, its reputation surpassed that of Lowtown, which became the new slums of the city due to the Foundry’s ever growing sooty fog. No church bells rang from the old clinic’s hallowed stone chamber. No services were given. No confessions were accepted. No persona arose who dared to speak as a recipient of direct communication with the “Fadebound Saviors.” Instead, the space simply waited, empty, subject to annual visits and daily tours, in hopes that its owner might someday return.

Appropriately enough, it was a lowly janitor who noticed the creak in the floorboard under the bench. A small secret compartment was found there, so perfectly hidden that architects and builders alike missed it. The popular opinion in Kirkwall was that a glamour spell had remained over the compartment, one specifically designed to ward off all but the humble and pure of heart. That the spell remained active was proof of continued life, some said. As proof of authenticity, a carving was found hidden there.

On the inside of the floor board, a surgical knife had cheekily carved the words “Anders was here.” The day this floorboard’s carving was placed face up as proof of authenticity, the crowds formed anew. Also on display was the only object found inside the secret compartment. Perfectly preserved was a red cloth believed by historians to be the former property of Fenris, bequeathed to him by Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall, as a token of Hawke’s favor. It is unknown how the token came to be there, or so they say.

The five stations of the pilgrim’s walk contained a closed circuit of worship for locals and tourists alike. Past the markers, Anders’ trail was lost by historians until he reached the city of Nevarra to the west. While the markers told the story well enough, the little wood cabin fell apart due to decay. Nobody knew of its significance. An hour’s walk away, pilgrims would descend annually, marking the stations of hope and suffering that Anders and Fenris went through on their way to finding one another.

Had Anders and Fenris known at the time how they would someday be viewed, they might have been even more ill at heart. Perhaps they were better off remaining oblivious of all that would come to pass.

The path trodden black was only the beginning. Never were two people so perfectly corruption bound.


End file.
